


A Change of Atmospheres

by felicia_angel



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-12-12
Updated: 2011-12-15
Packaged: 2017-10-27 06:06:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 28,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/292442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/felicia_angel/pseuds/felicia_angel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alternate Universe - set where aliens have arrived on Earth to change things for better and worst (see "Gintama" manga), Sherlock Holmes is a consulting detective with a past, and John Watson is somewhat important to a great deal of people, and there is a bit of confusion as to what will ultimately be done.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Meeting of Destiny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In an alternate universe where aliens made contact very early, Sherlock Holmes is a consulting detective with a very dangerous past, and John Watson is possibly very important as well. Also there might be some very odd things going on, and dangerous ones as well.

Inspector Giles Lestrade was the one credited with introducing New Scotland Yard to Sherlock Holmes. The way he met him, as well as the events afterwards, had caused him to be able to pull some strings both between Holmes and his immediate Denebolan counterpart, Gregson.

Lestrade, oddly enough, had the idea that despite his continual fight with Gregson, the odd Humanoid alien Investigator who handled the Denebolan side of things, that he got along with Lestrade simply because he treated him like everyone else, though Holmes treated him with the same disdain he gave to everyone else.

Which was probably why Gregson was glaring at him as Holmes went through the virtual recreation of the murder scene, moving over to hiss at Lestrade, “Who pulled the strings to let him in, Giles? I can’t allow him to join this investigation.”

Lestrade sighed, removing his hat to rub his head a little, as if he was getting a headache. “Gregson, he doesn’t want to have anyone know he’s in this, you know that. He’s helped me on two cases and solved five of them, but never asks that I give him fame for it, only some money for it. It’s a sliding scale.”

Gregson frowned at this reminder of Holmes’ odd dislike of fame before looking at Lestrade again. “Giles…”

“They were high up and one was in charge of the Army. Plus what we found out about Drebber and Stagerson is conflicting, and I hate conflicting reports about Denebolans like them.”

Gregson nodded, glaring at the body that no longer was there as Holmes slowly stood, calling up a suspect-creation sketcher and putting in his observations, the computer calculating it and agreeing on each matter, as far as the evidence was concerned. It was one part of the tall Human that Lestrade enjoyed: he was always right, and often got even surprised reactions from the various machines that the Denebolans had brought with them and integrated into the new, combined society.

Holmes turned to the two before shaking his head. “It was a Human, that much I know, but why is beyond me currently.” He cast a glance at Lestrade as the room disappeared, now showing brick wall that had once been an extra storage or something similar, if Lestrade remembered from his mentor’s story, “I take it that was why you brought me in, however.”

Lestrade sighed again as they left the room. “Possibly… Drebber was supposedly searching for someone, a man named Watson.” Lestrade pulled out his notebook to ensure he didn’t get anything wrong, for getting things wrong in front of Holmes was just a welcoming to being reminded of it for months, “All we could find out about him is classified, save a few of the most normal things: Born to a well-off Scottish lawyer, spent a few years in Australia, went through the University of London, St. Bart’s and Netly to get a M.D, which is quite odd, and put up a thesis on neuropathology. He joined the Army after Netly and was attached to the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, but things get…odd…during the Second Afghan War.”

Holmes paused, his gray eyes intent as he listened and obviously noticing a few things that Lestrade or Gregson hadn’t. “Why was it odd that he got an M.D, Lestrade? I understand that one needs at least an M.B to be a practicing doctor, and an M.D is so one can also teach.”

“He went in as an Army surgeon,” Lestrade pointed out, “That makes getting an M.D odd in his case…unless he wanted to learn or show off, and he did it in a relatively new if unheard of realm of medicine, which he got a good amount of scholarships to other schools to start looking into neuropathy, including some Denebolan-run schools here. Instead, he joined the Army, took the course at Netly, then headed to India without giving the rest of them any notice.”

Holmes obviously was much more interested now, which Lestrade was glad about because an interested Holmes meant that, no matter what else came up, he’d see the case through. “So what about his time in the Army was so ‘odd’, as you put it?”

Lestrade looked back at his notes as a new voice came in, causing the three to turn towards it, “During the battle of Maiwand, he was wounded, and did a feat he shouldn’t have been able to do.” The Denebolan standing before them, his head more of a cat’s then a human’s, and his eyes fixed on Holmes, was dressed as one of the high-ranking members that helped the humans and Humaniod Denebolans run New Scotland Yard, though by speaking for them through the government rather than be in the actual area and handle the judges, solicitors, and policemen affairs. “As well, Drebber’s search for a Watson was for this one’s uncle, who studied the properties of Titan genetic makeup and how it interacts with other species.”

Holmes frowned. “So Drebber was here searching for it. Why would it get him killed?”

The Denebolan frowned as Gregson said, “Sir, the evidence does suggest that something from Drebber’s past may be the cause for his murder, not the interest in the other Watson’s research.”

Lestrade also spoke up, “As for Watson, he’s listed as ‘Human’, so it falls under my territory to search for him, as does the killer, who was labeled as Human by both Mr. Holmes and the crime computer. As well, if this about revenge, then Drebber’s friend Stagerson is in danger, and therefore Gregson or I must find him and get him into either custody or at least ensure he’s safe in case there must be a case brought up or more information must be gained.”

The official sighed. “I would like Mr. Holmes to focus on searching for Watson,” he finally said, “for double his usual fee. I want you both to find the man who killed Drebber and to see if you can’t find Stagerson as well…or if you can find anything else on the two. The reports from America are not quite…as detailed as they should be. Rumors of what happened over in Utah and the area claimed by Joseph Smith’s cult do not bring up anything pleasant either, and I would rather have the full answers, even if from the man doing the killing, then leave that part unknown. And if the information about Titan genetics is involved, then we must assume it had to do with what the Army suspects of Watson after the battle of Maiwand, and which I must warn you about, Mr. Holmes.”

Holmes frowned then nodded, though Lestrade could guess that Holmes either had guessed or already knew what was about to be said. “What is it?”

“We believe that Watson’s uncle experimented with Titan genetics, and the result was one who could appear, outwardly and genetically, Human until a time of great stress, when some of that ancestry comes out…such as the vicious rock storm that came up after Watson was hurt by a Jezail bullet and which resulted in the defeat of the Afghans there, but also has given us questions about his true heritage.”

\--

Sherlock Holmes, currently of Montague and the only freelance consulting detective in this city, stretched as he left Scotland Yard, glaring at the sound of a passing ship overhead and taking a slower and somewhat old-fashioned horse-and-carriage to Bart’s, the first of his stops in the search for the first and possibly only half-Human in current existence.

It had been some forty odd years since the Denebolans had appeared in various points all over the world, some requiring the firing of laser canons or the like before they would allow them to land. As they created treaties or simply took over some of the more hostile areas (such as the aforementioned Afghanistan), Humans grew into three categories on the new species that appeared: one, like Lestrade, worked well with them and accepted it, doing what had to be done because the Law (or, in some cases, crime) was just that and it didn’t matter who your bedfellows were, so long as the job was done; two, like many others, were indifferent, seeing them as just one thing or another; and finally, the last group wanted them gone. Various rebellions had appeared, with few being long-lasting and fewer being successful as more and more Humans fell into the last two categories or simply appeared to dislike or distrust the motives of the rebelling Humans.

Holmes lit a cigarette and sighed, recalling why he was at Lestrade’s beck and call, and that Gregson tolerated him because he tolerated Gregson. Appearing Human among the Denebolans was as much cause for him to be on Earth instead of elsewhere as being part of another race had once been (and still was to some) among Humans.

To be sent to find a half-Human…that official knows of my past. It’s a test, to see what I will do, and if I really am reformed, as Lestrade has put forth before on my defense. I wonder what they expect me to do, or even what will happen if I pass this particular test.

He had no doubt that with this technology and their wish to clear up the record, Lestrade and Gregson would find the killer. His main worry was if finding the killer would be before or after he’d killed Doctor John H. Watson, M.D, former of Her Majesty’s Army Medical Division and having run away on the same day of his discharge.

\--

It was some two days into the case that Holmes began to actually worry. His talk to Watson’s former dresser, an infuriatingly talkative busy-body named Stamford, had ended with little information. Stamford had seen Watson once near Bart’s: a thin, nut-browned and shattered former version of his old self that only asked for some money, intent on leaving England. Holmes had thanked Stamford and left, uncertain why Stamford would say such a lie when Holmes was not known for his social graces and called people on lies very often, loudly, and in public if he could. However, Stamford’s lie would only hurt an investigation if they didn’t realize how horrible he was at lying, even by omission. Watson had needed something else besides money: The older end of the trail said that he’d been a stowaway and only escaped notice by saving the life of a few crewmembers aboard the ship he’d been on. He did not want to leave England…if he had, he might have picked another ship.

The final end had lead Holmes to the front of a cab-stand, and finally to the home of one of their men, a tall man with a red-flushed face, dark hair, and a full beard, his whole feel that of the American West suddenly transplanted to London and driving people around as if he’d lived there his whole life. Still, he also locked his door with a few more heavy locks then such a place should have, but ones which Holmes could easily get through, as they were quite old-fashioned.

The man’s name was Jefferson Hope, and Holmes had to guess he was off to find Stagerson, or hopefully to a trap laid by Lestrade and Gregson after they found Stagerson. The Denebolan and Human had been hard to track, but their movements spoke of a strange cat-and-mouse game that was going on between the two, and which would possibly end up with Stagerson dead and Hope on his way or living out his life in peace, not haunted by the taking of two lives.

A test of the door confirmed having to use his antiqued lockpicks in order to unlock the door and enter the small apartment.

He knew such a place…all of this screamed that his own past had been discussed, and he’d been chosen to prove Lestrade right, that he was a reformed man and wouldn’t do something stupid. As much as he might hate that idea, it also meant his liberty, and that he would continue to at least solve cases, to do what he had to in order to make a living.

Before had hardly been living: it had been holding onto a drowned man and hoping to revive him when you had no knowledge of what would come next. That life was behind him, and on top of that, a man’s life was in danger, if what he’d found was correct. He would never forgive himself if he let the man be killed for such a trivial thing as having been the end result of an experiment he had no say in.

The room was obviously only there for show, or sleep when the man became too exhausted. Holmes saw enough tell-tale signs on his first glance to confirm the man had murdered Drebber, as well as had left to find and murder Stagerson. The fact that the bed was moved into the main room while there was at least one connecting door also made Holmes worried, slowly and quietly making his way to the door and testing the handle, slightly surprised to find it unlocked but not quite, considering how much Hope must have put into the front door and windows.

The man inside the room was unconscious, his arms tied up to a low beam, dirty soot-covered hair that had grown out of the military length hiding his face. His clothing spoke of having been picked up from the streets, and before that of having gotten most of them from a charity shop. Holmes had to get one of the shaky chairs to free him, the man moaning slightly as Holmes got him down. His cheek showed a dark purple bruise where he’d been hit, possibly by a fist, and the bottom half of his face was wrapped in what had once been clean bandages. He moaned again as Holmes got him to the ground, starting to undo the wrap, and slowly opened his eyes, the color a little too blue to be fully Human, and slightly unfocused, meaning either drugs or just pain. The man gasped as Holmes helped him sit up, leaning more towards the latter then the former, as there sounded like a carriage passing them by.

Holmes held up a hand for silence, listening intently to make sure it wasn’t Hope before leaning to whisper quietly, “Can you stand on your own?”

The man shook his head slowly, closing his eyes against a wave of dizziness, or so Holmes had to guess as he helped him to a chair, what little he did know of medicine saying the man had a concussion, exposure, malnutrition, dehydration, and a laundry list of other problems that required a doctor.

“He…” the man’s voice was rough from disuse and Holmes waited as he coughed slightly, “He went…to kill…”

Holmes nodded quickly as he helped the man into a standing position from the chair, silently wishing for some water. “I know. The police should be waiting for him, or at least be on his trail.” He paused for a moment before saying, “I’m Sherlock Holmes.”

“J-John Watson…”

Holmes smiled as he all but carried the half-conscious man out of the room. “Capitol. There are a few people worried about your sudden disappearance, John Watson.”

\--

The police doctor was quick to heal Watson’s wounds as Holmes watched, deciding it would be best to not leave the shaken man’s side for the moment. His nerves, already badly shaken from the war that he’d effectively won, was near broken due to the recent and he seemed more inclined to stay with his savior then with strangers, even if it was within Scotland Yard.

Lestrade and Gregson came in, both obviously annoyed and casting only grateful glances at Watson when they saw him in the Yard’s hospital bed. “Well, we have him, but he got to Stagerson,” Gregson informed Holmes, “He’s crazy, that one, I have to guess it…fought like a cornered tiger then just gave up.”

Lestrade rubbed his arm and shoulder before adding, “The medical scanners say he has a weak heart, aeortic something or other…basically that he’s not got long to live.” Lestrade cast another glance at Watson. “You know why he came after you, by the way?”

Watson sighed, nodding slowly from his prone position in bed. “He seemed eager to outline what I was to him and what would be done to me before I died.” He closed his eyes briefly, “It’s odd…Father always said I might have experiments, but after a while, I suppose he only wished for me to think positively.”

Gregson sighed, going to sit in a nearby chair. “I heard you had your uncle’s papers, or at least the information. I hope it’s not all in your head or whatever…”

Holmes chuckled, holding up the disk. “Hope had it in his room where he kept Watson. I don’t know why he didn’t burn it.” He held up a small picture, giving Watson an apologetic smile, “I went back while you were resting and being cared for…I wanted to know more about this odd man.”

Lestrade took a seat as well. “So what did you find out? I know most Denebolans keep together but even they don’t like rumors and half-truths. No offense, Gregson, but some of them are just too much and completely blue-haired jerks.”

Gregson sighed. “No offense, but it was that group of Humans that helped keep it secret. No offense, Lestrade, but for a group who spends more time killing one another over an idea, you’re a bunch of weirdoes.”

Watson glanced at Holmes, who was shaking his head. “If you two are done attempting to insult one another, I was going to tell you what I found and why only some of Smith’s followers were involved?”

The two suddenly gave him his full attention, and Holmes smiled slightly. “Thank you. So,” he held up the picture of a young woman, “There was once a woman who was very beautiful, and who’s adoptive father and her were saved by the Mormons, followers of Joseph Smith who traveled to and lived in the American West. Hope fell in love with this girl, and they were planning to marry. However, the Denebolans had already arrived to that area, specifically Drebber and Staggerson. Some twenty to thirty years ago, a man named Watson found that he could combine Titan genetics with Human, creating a new type of being, a Half-Human. This was huge because then, those Human and Denebolans that actually did fall in love could, if they wished, be married and have children. Of course, Titans are not the same as Denebolans…Titan holds Humanoid aliens but they are from this same system, and breathe a different atmosphere. On top of that, they want nothing to do with anyone, and have been able to repel any contact with others, though there was enough to get one sample. That sample was enough for Watson to create one live embryo, and said embryo allowed one live birth…which is the Watson here. That news, however, was enough to get Drebber and Staggerson to look into it. They wanted Human wives as well, and to be the first to have Half-Denebolan children. They chose Hope’s love to experiment on, and considering that he wished revenge, the experiment must have failed.”

Both Lestrade and Gregson blinked at the news. “So…Hope tracked them down and killed them? But why go through the extra trouble of finding Watson? And how did they know about his uncle’s work? No one else did!” Lestrade pointed out.

Gregson looked up. “That official did…so his uncle must have told someone. And he was killed, wasn’t he?”

Watson nodded slowly. “He was in London to show part of his work and disappeared…he was found in the Thames later. Father moved us all to Australia…my mother had died before then…she was sick, but wanted to give Father one more son, because there’s always two Watson sons, and she couldn’t have another naturally…”

Holmes sighed. “Hope found something or overheard something to implicate Watson’s uncle, and therefore Watson. He got word help from one of the many Resistance groups, and possibly was to be paid a good deal to deliver Watson to them. Such a person, created from Denebolan technology by a Human, would be considered something to be killed and shown as an example…Watson escaped them in India and almost did so here.”

Watson smiled slightly. “Don’t make me sound so intelligent…I’m very average, aside from my eyes. It took a jezail bullet to my shoulder to make me go mad, and another to my leg to make me stop. I should be dead.”

Lestrade let out a breath. “Holmes…you know what I’m going to ask.”

“I do. I guessed when that official came in. And I’ll take care of him.”

Watson blinked. “Wait…what?”

Gregson and Lestrade both stood, Lestrade smiling as he said, “You’re the world’s only half-human, and a national hero. Because of you, a region that humanity couldn’t tame on its own has stability, and what should’ve been a massacre ended with more men coming back to happy wives and children and lovers. Holmes here must be watched, to determine that he’s not falling back to his old ways, and also needs unconventional ways to protect you from people like Hope. He knows their trade secrets, so he’ll be able to keep you safe.”

The two were able to get outside before Gregson said, “So, what was the over-under on this ‘partnership’ lasting?”

“A month, and I have the over.”

Gregson blinked at that. “On what grounds? Holmes couldn’t be friends with anyone to save his own life, and Watson’s been on the run and streets for a good--.”

“Yes, but Holmes also has a soft-spot for strays,” Lestrade pointed out, “and Watson knows a good deal when he sees one. Call him average, but that one is intelligent. I read his paper…it’s well written and very well-researched for a new area. Mark my words, they’ll be at least around each other for over a month.”

Gregson considered this for a long moment before saying, “Bradley took the under, didn’t he?”

“It has nothing to do with that.”

“The idiot took the under, then?”

“I said it had nothing to do with that!”

\--

Holmes had taken a seat and began smoking nearby, watching Watson as he examined the ceiling as the obviously most interesting item in the area before saying, “I take it you’re not quite happy about this change of events?”

Watson didn’t bother to look at him as he answered. “Not really, no. I’ve been caring for myself since I was thirteen. I don’t see why I must have a caretaker this late in life.”

Holmes chuckled. “I don’t see why I need someone to look after for so long…but I do know why they want us in the same area.” At that, Watson looked over at him, his cool blue eyes now far more Human-like, at least from this distance, and Holmes gave a smile before continuing, “I am not the most sainted of people. I have…I am indebted to Lestrade, for not putting me in the docks when he caught me. I told him that I wanted to be caught, that I tired of what I was doing, and wished to solve crimes, not commit them. I don’t quite know why he believed me…I wouldn’t have believed that no matter who said it. And I am an arrogant man who can’t come across as humble unless I’m acting, and even then, I can’t fool some people. Even so, he helped me how he could, and with the end of this case, I’ve enough money for a new apartment.” Holmes pulled out a newspaper, showing him a circled advertisement for a room to rent in Baker Street. “My own are in a deplorable state, and I only have enough for a down payment and the first month or two, until I take on another high-paying client, which most of those have either pedestrian cases or ones that they require me for because police would cause too many problems. Therefore, I need a person to share digs with. As I must also take care of you because not doing so will possibly result in me in the docks and you far worse off then you are now.”

Watson sighed, turning his attention back to the ceiling. “I’m a deserter…they don’t exactly give me a wound pension, now do they?”

Holmes smirked, holding up a checkbook. “Which is why I checked for you…don’t look so angry, Hope had it, along with your wallet.” He paused in thought and opened his mouth to ask Watson something.

“I didn’t sell my watch, if that’s what you want to ask. I was lucky enough with it to win some money back with it, so I wouldn’t sell it.”

Holmes nodded. “I’ll see if I can find it. As I was saying, I checked with your bank. You’ve been getting the Pension, and some extra as well. Despite the flashy and scary display, you did win a war for them, and you saved a good amount of lives.” He paused, looking back at Watson. “I’d rather you come with me to Baker Street as a new friend, rather than someone who has to be protected. If we do that, you know they’ll push us to some government safe-house and--.”

“I do know what’s involved. I was told at least that much for truth.” Holmes only had to wait a minute before a hand moved out from the covers, held up before him. “A normal lease…and then we can see where it goes.”

Holmes smiled and nodded, taking the hand firmly. “I see no reason why not.” After releasing it, Holmes took another long drag of his cigarette before asking, “You don’t mind strong tobacco, do you?”


	2. The Singular Affair of the Aluminum Crutch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beginnings are easy but maintenance is hard. Also one shouldn't get Watson angry.

It was a quick succession of knocks then a rather disgruntled female voice saying, “Mr. Holmes!” that woke him up about a month and a half after the two had moved into Baker Street, Watson having recovered and been put into the area with Holmes. The landlady, a young widow named Mrs. Hudson, seemed nice enough unless crossed, when she took on a very tyrannical and almost masculine attitude. Holmes had learned after a check that her husband had once driven aeroplanes and been lost during what should have been a routine stunt flight, and that she had met him while she was flying.

In other words, a force on any good day, and on a bad day…

“MISTER HOLMES!”

“WHAT?” he finally shouted back, opening the door to reveal that he was only in his nightshirt, as well as remembering that he’d already told her that he disliked being disturbed for any reason, especially by his landlady.

She glared at him for his rudeness then sighed, motioning to the room. She had, even in the month, gotten accustomed to him being able to notice the slightest thing, and thus often communicated a great deal of her aggravation at him through it.

Holmes looked around, back to his landlady, and groaned. “AGAIN?”

“He’s your responsibility, Mr. Holmes, and this is the second time in as many weeks. I won’t have it.”

There was a quick weighing of the consequences of not dragging the former Army Surgeon and currently only half-human and incredible stubborn man known as John H. Watson back to their lodgings, but it was soon replaced with the much more fruitful thoughts of how he might either get Watson back to Baker Street, or to stop being such a stubborn man and simply accept the new station in life as everyone else was.

Dressed and ready to head down to the lower parts of the city, Holmes paused only to get some money and head out, walking a little ways away before heading off to a side alley and spotting the tell-tale sign of the area being inhabited.

The young boy who appeared before him was called Wiggins. Like many of the Street Arabs that came under the name of Irregulars, he was dirty and wore clothing that either would fit at one point or had a year ago. He was getting towards the age of twelve, and like many of the Irregulars, was one who carried no respect for either Human or Denebolan, all of them orphans or forced to the streets due to either the Human resistance or some government interference, as well as the few Denebolans that simply did not tolerate orphans as part of their cultures. They had been a small band and Holmes, with Wiggins, created the group into a sort of unofficial police force, the group that could go anywhere and see nearly everything in the metropolis.

It was one of Holmes’ many ways of repenting. He had only taken on the role of freelance consulting detective to pay for his own means, while the money he’d inherited before leaving that particular group would be used to help the Irregulars however he could.

“Hullo sir,” Wiggins said simply, giving Holmes a smile as he came up. “Has he run off ‘gain?”

“I’m beginning to wonder if I shouldn’t just pay for your schooling and adopt you all,” Holmes muttered, “save that I heard Mrs. Hudson and that other woman…Mary something…did it already. Would you and the others mind helping me find him?”

Wiggins sighed. “Sir, ‘e’s where ‘e was the last two times!”

Holmes mirrored his sigh and paid him the fee anyway, plus an extra. “You need better shoes. If Mrs. Hudson sees you in those she’ll never let me hear the end of it.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you.” With that, Wiggins and the other disappeared to the various back-alleys and dark ways they lived in, probably to divide up the pay, and Holmes left for Whitechapel and the area of beggars where he’d found Watson a week ago.

\--

Lestrade was waiting for them when they returned, frowning upon seeing the clothing that Watson had. Despite his luggage and many other things being delivered back to him after taking lodging at Baker Street, Watson was never quite as comfortable in a suit as the two men thought he should be, though he would wear one at their insistence and had at least three good ones and one dress suit in his wardrobe now. As it was, he wore his hand-down clothing and what had possibly been his old Army trousers as well as boots, though they were far more worn then even the hand-down jacket, shirt and waistcoat he wore.

“Glad to see you both decided to join me,” Lestrade muttered, pulling out his notebook. “I have a rather interesting case for you, Holmes.”

Watson started to leave when Holmes grabbed his hand, motioning for him to sit in his normal chair as Holmes said, “Tell us.”

Lestrade glanced at Watson and gave him a smile before opening his notebook, beginning to speak to them. “A very odd sort of case, but also straightforward…it’s the connecting factor that makes no sense really.”

Watson seemed determined to refuse anything else that Holmes would offer in, chair included, and instead looked around the room, moving to glance at the small bit of lunch that Mrs. Hudson had put out for them, obviously certain that they would return, or at least that Holmes would return with Watson.

Holmes sighed. “Lestrade, really…could you please get the point at least? What item?”

Lestrade glared at Holmes briefly before saying, “First of all, both were either accidents that have resulted in one death and one near-death, though the doctors are not optimistic about the second case. In both cases, though, the men had aluminum crutch.”

Watson frowned as Holmes asked, “Do you mean to say that they were the same manufacturer? If so…”

Lestrade shook his head. “No. As far as we can tell, it’s the same crutch.”

\--

Watson sat at the table without a word, picking at the food that Mrs. Hudson had left for him, noting that none of Holmes’ food had even been touched. It was one of many things the man did that annoyed him, the other being that he had not taken his money and simply rented out the rooms, and the other being that he’d not allowed Watson to disappear back into the wandering population of Earth.

He was only half-listening to the case as he drank some of the tea, considering what to do next. He knew that leaving while Holmes was on a case would only mean more trouble for him, and he disliked the idea of how the odd man might handle things when angry. Watson knew little enough about him, save that he had some past and it was because of Lestrade that he was free to get the house and watch over Watson.

He didn’t want someone to watch over him. He’d not been lying when he told Holmes on their first real meeting that he’d been taking care of himself since he was thirteen. His brother and family had not had the time for him, save if he made trouble, and they’d stop monitoring him after uprooting a tree had lead to punishment, and he ended up holding in all his power until that point.

Watson rubbed his wound, trying hard to not glare at or feel the wound too much. He’d not healed it as much as he wanted to, nor had he quite gotten over the illness before he left. The whole experience had been much of what his family had told him to expect, yet having it happen had been as much of a shock as the actual shot and what came afterward that he wondered if any of it was true.

“Are you coming with us?” Lestrade’s voice caused him to look up, seeing Holmes getting his coat and had back on.

“I don’t think he should,” Holmes said, “he looks a bit pale, and we took a very long walk.”

Watson wasn’t sure if he should glare at Holmes or be grateful. His shoulder and leg were hurting greatly, and while he wanted to go out, if only for the chance to slip away again, he knew that he’d possibly have to wait another week or two before he got the chance.

Lestrade frowned but nodded, for which Watson was grateful as the two headed out. He finished his small meal before beginning a mental debated on if he should try the stairs to his attic room or stay here and put his feet up.

The pain in his shoulder decided for him: he slowly moved to the settee and sat with his feet up, bundling up as Mrs. Hudson came in to clear away the tray before returning, giving him a glass of water. “You shouldn’t run away again,” she said, “I got worried.”

“I know,” he muttered as a way of thanks. He knew she cared, but honestly, for how long? Until his temper gets too hot for him to hold in, and something breaks against a wall without anyone touching it? Until he gets scared again, and rocks fall through the roof or next to the door?

“Don’t make me wake him up again. He’s in a dark enough mood without a case without having to go after you,” she continued, cleaning up a little as he sighed, wondering if there was any way he could get her to not start. Mrs. Hudson was a wonderful woman and should be with someone, as opposed to a widow watching over two men who would, in the end, be ungrateful.

Not that he was. He honestly enjoyed Mrs. Hudson, even with her mothering, and he wanted nothing more than for her to be safe.

But so long as he was around, she couldn’t be safe. No one was. It would be better if he simply disappeared into the crowd of the wandering homeless and have no ties to create dangerous situations again.

\--

“How is he?”

“Defensive,” Holmes growled out as he put down the crutch, turning to Lestrade. “How long have you held that question in?”

“Since you both returned. Are you going to tell me--?”

“He left the apartment again, though this is the second time in as many weeks. I think you won the over-under bet.”

“Thank you. I have something to tell Bradley and the others now.” Lestrade waited as Holmes finished up and put the evidence back. “Why defensive?”

“Really, Lestrade, I don’t see why you’re so interested.”

“I am because while I know you wouldn’t hurt a Denebolan unless they broke the law, there are others who don’t. On top of that, at least one person seemed to have heard of the half-human, and wants to do tests on him. If you don’t get him to trust you and open up, he’s in danger of finding himself under someone’s knife.”

“So I guessed. He knows that as well, but there’s added things to it, such as the fact that beside the problem with Hope, which he knows caused it, he seems ready to hide within the general homeless population.”

Lestrade looked upward. “About that…are you going ever going to bring that up against Mr. Stamford? I don’t see why he has to go unpunished for it.”

“Lestrade, there’s hardly enough evidence or even reason to do so. The man is an idiot and I’d much rather just keep Watson away from him than take him to court.”

Lestrade gave in, saying, “So what did you see?”

“A solution to the case.”

\--

“MR. HOLMES!” Watson slowly opened up his eyes, frowning upon seeing that what appeared to be the London fog had entered into their sitting room. He heard Mrs. Hudson coughing and a window opening, sitting up to see Holmes off near the now-opened window, one of his pipes slowly spewing out the thick atmosphere.

“Forgive me, Mrs. Hudson, but I didn’t realize you’d come in to check on Watson,” he muttered, standing to move her out of the area. “He’s perfectly fine, I’m making sure he’s fine, now leave before your cough returns.”

Watson looked around as the door closed again, Holmes coming back and knocking out some of the ash into the grate. He gave Watson a small smile as the air started to clear. “Are you doing better?”

Watson nodded slowly, looking around the area. “You were smoking?”

“Yes. I would be surprised but then again, Titan has an atmosphere that’s slightly…thicker…than Earth’s.”

Watson glared at him as he put the pipe away before continuing. “It wasn’t a test, dear boy, simply I was thinking. When I do, I tend to smoke a bit much. It’s the case.”

“I thought you’d solved it.”

“I was able to figure out that the doctor didn’t know what he did, as well as that the crutch appeared there quite by accident. The question is who put it there and why they wished to frame that doctor.”

Watson rubbed his shoulder lightly, considering, “So what have you thought up?”

“Only that this isn’t either a Denebolan or Human conspiracy,” he said, “the specific hospital targeted serves both and doesn’t keep a record of anyone there, leaving it one of the few where any sort can go to get treatment.” He paused as Watson frowned at that, obviously attempting to figure out if he knew the place.

“Do you need me to do something?”

Holmes considered this for a long moment. “Not so much, unless you feel up to volunteering at the hospital. It might be very dangerous, though.”

Watson glared at him. “You’re more worried I’ll run away, aren’t you?”

“It’s not that, so much as I dislike the idea of endangering anyone. I spend more time worrying over others then I do about myself, so it makes it easier for me if I simply go in on my own.”

“That’s a dangerous attitude,” Watson said, trying to not make himself care. He shouldn’t care about the case at all, and should just stop asking questions.

He shouldn’t be worried at what Holmes said about going in alone because it was easier for him to deal with danger that way.

“Are you so sure that’s for the best?” Watson finally asked.

“No. But it’s all I can think of to do right now.”

\--

The hospital was, at least on the surface, a very uninteresting piece of architecture and on Hambury Street, one of the dangerous areas in London and a rather interesting blend of the middle class working up and the lower class doing what they could to survive.

The hospital itself was a small enough to be unnoticed by anyone not looking but large enough to suit a purpose, he had to guess. There was nothing else for him to do, then, but go in.

The woman at the front looked up as he walked in. “How can I help you, sir?”

“I’m Doctor Watson,” he said, “I came here to speak to you about something.”

\--

Holmes woke slowly, then finally looked up to see that the clock read a much later time then he wanted.

In fact, it was far into the afternoon, and…

“DAMN HIM!” he yelled, sitting up and then putting a hand to his head. He’d not taken any of his cocaine, but apparently the good doctor had seen fit to slip something into his drink.

Holmes stood up slowly, hearing something echoing and realizing it was a knock on the door. He groaned, finally able to yell, “Come in!” and seeing Mrs. Hudson and Inspector Lestrade at the door.

“Oh dear,” Mrs. Hudson muttered, going over to help him stay up as Lestrade walked in. “He gave you more of it, didn’t he?”

Holmes managed to moan and slowly, with Mrs. Hudson’s help, stood up. “He probably went to the hospital.” He moved to his closet on his own, quickly looking through his clothing before settling on some of the more workman-like clothing and turning to Lestrade, blinking and wondering what it was, exactly, that Watson had used to put him to such a sleep. He also wondered briefly how long Lestrade had been there.

“Do you have any idea what to expect?” Lestrade asked as Holmes got ready and started to head out.

“I’m not quite sure…but it’s not fully Denebolan, nor Human. Still…this can’t be good.”

“I’ll call in Gregson and that new boy, Hopkins. Can you get there on your own?”

Holmes was able to nod without feeling so horrid before racing downstairs, Lestrade close behind him.

\--

Watson walked slowly after the nurse, frowning as he looked around the area. He had a strange feeling about the place, and it only grew more as he walked further into the hospital, as if there was something pushing on his mind and attempting to get in but finding no cracks.

The nurse brought him in further, Watson flinching at the feeling of that odd invasion doubling it’s efforts.

“Doctor Watson?”

“I’m fine,” he muttered, taking in a breath. “Please, lead on.”

The nurse gave him a smile that seemed forced, as if it was a mockery of a real human. “You seem to be a rather hard nut to crack, Doctor Watson. Perhaps it would be better if you simply met the group, so they might find out why they can’t touch your mind.”

\--

Holmes sighed as he waited, rubbing his forehead. The area around the hospital was becoming thick with some odd tension, and more people were avoiding the area then before.

What is in there? Holmes wondered briefly, frowning as he saw Lestrade, Hopkins and Gregson coming over to him, a small group of Denebolan policemen behind them.

“I take it you have a general idea of what’s going on?” he asked, frowning as he looked at the men and Lestrade gave him a small tablet he realized was a quick psychic-blocking chemical.

“We can do some policework without you,” Lestrade grumbled as Holmes took the tablet, “but the problem is also that the man there might be a Titan, or similar to the Doctor.”

Holmes growled in annoyance. “We haven’t any time to lose, then.”

\--

Watson managed to get inside of the room and even stayed up after he felt the intense pressure, attempting to push him down, glaring up at the man before him. He was standing with a filtering mask over his mouth, glaring at Watson as he looked him over.

“I have heard that someone used some of L’ers’ genetic material,” the voice that issued forth was both inside his mind on the surface and filtered through the voice box, giving the man a very unnerving quality. “You even have his eyes.”

Watson glared at the man as he tried to stay standing, than felt it. The wound on his leg and arm, which he’d used his powers to at least cover over and attempted to heal, were started to reopen.

“I’m amazed they allowed you to live for so long,” the Titan said, blood beginning to seep into Watson’s clothing and the pain in his leg forcing him to his knees before the being, “Well, no matter. You’re quite an abomination, you know that? Our genetics are never meant to mix with such a lowly race as Humans.”

Watson gasped in pain, dropping his walking stick as he also felt the bullet inside his arm shifting, being pulled outward.

“L’ers would be horrified to find out such a thing came from his genetics,” the Titan continued as Watson attempted to put a hand up to stop the bleeding and the moving pieces of metal, “such a sad, pitiful being.” Pain spiked, much as when he’d been shot the first time, and Watson clamped down on his fear and wish to throw items at the man, to use that power which had marked him as something less than Human or Titan.

The tearing of his flesh as the bullets were pulled backwards from where they had been imbedded made it hard…he bit his lip to keep from screaming but gave up shortly before the bullet fragments went out through his blood-soaked suit, the pain of it going in suddenly having something to be compared to as he let out a scream of pain.

Watson was not surprised to find himself on the ground, though the dark and gray around his vision was not welcome. He didn’t enjoy the idea of fainting for any reason, and had succeeded in not doing so no matter what the circumstances. He wasn’t about to faint now, not when staying conscious was so important. If he was conscious, even if it meant partly and losing too much blood, then he might figure out a way to get out and warn a nearby policeman, be able to get something going before he disappeared again into the sea of homeless men in this cesspool of a city. Maybe in America he could hide…

The blood-and-flesh drenched bullet fragments were on the ground nearby, and he saw the Titan walk over to him, putting a foot to his wound to turn him over. “I suppose that you aren’t about to give up, are you?” he frowned at a sudden feeling, and Watson took the moment to attempt again to pull his powers and mind into the circular shell that he’d long used to keep his powers at bay. He couldn’t allow it to go wild, for all that it might save him from the immediate threat it would also harm others and brand him, again, as something not Human, as something masquerading as Human.

I am like a rubber ball. I bounce, but don’t harm. Nothing gets in or out. Like my brother told me to do. Like I should have done during the battle of Maiwand, instead of worrying about others when all those Ghazis charged at us…instead of worrying about what might happen to Holmes after what he told me about that damned crutch. I am alone, and must be alone. Everyone and everything else must bounce and stay off of me, must instead ignore me as something common and not at all unusual.

“So that man found me,” the Titan said, more to himself as it was only spoken and not echoing in Watson’s mind, “I must see what I can do about that Human Resistance Deserter busy-body and his gang that claims the law on their side.”

Even through the pain, he recognized that. That meant the police were here…but then…

Something seemed to be inside his mind from that, and he got an image of Holmes and the others, Lestrade and Gregson giving orders to evacuate the hospital as he heard the female nurse from before speak.

“You’ll not last long, even with that drug,” the woman said in the odd area, and he saw Holmes glance at her in anger, “that half-breed perversion of nature is going to die soon…even you cannot reach him in time, though I’d think, considering your background, you’d be happier to kill him off, wouldn’t you…Defective Guy Fawkes?”

Watson struggled to be released, and suddenly pain flared again in his body from his shoulder, forcing him back into his own mind to see the Titan stepping on his shoulder, forcing him back down to the harsh stone ground and reminding Watson of how weak he felt, as well as attempting to think straight.

The Fawkes, or Guy Fawkes, was the term used for the Human Resistance people, especially those who had taken some action, often violent, against Human or Denebolan (but just as often both) and those that failed or attempted to go back into society were called Defective…

Then…Holmes was…

“You’re not about to save them,” the Titan spoke only in his mind, “You’re a freak of nature with nothing of merit to you.”

Watson already knew that. He attempted to breathe without crying out in pain, the thick rubber skin he’d imagined around his power now started to crack like an eggshell. Holmes was a Guy Fawkes. Holmes had lived with him for a month, and saved him from Hope even after he knew the truth. Holmes had found him twice. Holmes had not told Mrs. Hudson his secret. Holmes didn’t bother him, instead attempting to ensure he was fine. Holmes was here. Holmes was looking for him.

Holmes was going to die because of him.

The rubber ball around his powers suddenly burst, and out of it came a maelstrom.

\--

The only warning that Holmes had which told him he had to find Watson now was the quite sudden movement within the hospital, and had he not been near a door, he might have thought it was a simple earthquake, as they were described from parts of the world that had such things.

But the fact that he could see out a door, he knew instead that the feel of movement and shaking was actually the fact that the house, which served as a hospital, had actually risen about three inches up from its normal place on the street.

Lestrade cursed loudly, and Hopkins looked quite sick suddenly until the house crashed back down, surprising and scaring most of the patients and hospital staff, and upsetting a good amount of the items on shelves and paintings on the walls.

“The bloody--.” He heard Gregson start as Holmes stood unsteadily, then ran down the way that the nurse had pointed towards.

The woman had been dead, her body being manipulated by an obvious Titan that had been responsible for the doctor’s use of the aluminum crutch and the death of two people. Whatever his…its…motivation behind the crime, Holmes needed to find out.

At least, he might…if what had happened was the Titan’s fault or Watson’s. He’d read the official report from Maiwand, mostly because the official had called in Murray in order to find out his side of the report and Holmes had been asked to help. Murray had spoken that the odd ‘rock storm’ had started before Watson was shot by the jezail bullet, and had admitted, rather in a neutral tone of one uncertain if their act was correct or not, that he’d shot at Watson and forced him to run, calling him ‘unnatural’. Holmes had, for his own reasons, explained what he could of Watson’s current mental state, and Murray seemed to take on the blame for Watson’s current sad state, and wanted to speak to him.

Holmes had refused, on no other ground then he distrusted the man due to his action when Watson needed help, and that had been the end of it.

He caught himself on the wall as the house shook again, the wood instead groaning and creaking while some of the plaster began to flake and turn into dust. Holmes had luckily been only a few feet away from the actual final hallway, because at that point the door, a solid wooden one and quite old, was thrown to the end of the hallway, crashing against the far wall with enough force to make the plaster and stone behind it crack, the door broken in half and more plaster falling on Holmes’ person.

“I should speak to Watson about this…” he muttered to himself, slowly walking alone one side, looking into the room that was on lower end of house. He could smell blood, and saw that most of the room had gone from ordered, as most often were, to chaotic. One side had what appeared to be a cave-in, and Holmes only paused a second to wonder if, under the rubble, was the Titan’s body.

He managed to get in and next to Watson before another sudden movement, not only around the room but along the whole house. Holmes managed to cover Watson’s body mostly, noting that his leg seemed to have a small wound that was already starting to clot. The one on his shoulder, however, had him worried, as Watson was now quite pale, his breathing quick and the blood still seeping out enough to even start to pool under him.

Holmes managed to get off his coat and used it to stop some of the flow, Watson looking over at him as he did, his eyes so blue that Holmes was suddenly quite aware of the color and also realized he wasn’t quite sure what type it was. It wasn’t any color he’d known, and if it was, he would still claim that Watson’s eyes were the first occurrence of it anywhere.

“why…why are you…” Watson started, his voice weak.

“Shush,” Holmes said, managing to find a still-sterile roll of bandages, “You’re in no--.”

“g-guy fa-fawkes…you…your…”

Holmes sighed, slowly doing what he could as far as first aid, wincing upon seeing the wound that had been reopened. He wondered, briefly, if the original wound had been real or not. “So I am. I am defective for a reason, though.”

“why?” the question was quiet and Holmes gave him a look as he continued to wrap up the wound as tightly he could and such.

“I met the Irregulars,” he said softly, “I suppose you’ve heard of them…that group of Street Arabs. They’re all orphans, and most of it is the fault of that Resistance I believed so much in it. I also questioned the thought of hurting Humans as well as Denebolans. My brother had left early on, but I was far too stupid to join him at the time. When I was told to kill a Human, I took offence, but had little choice. The man’s crime was falling in love with a woman who had adopted a Denebolan child, and instead I helped them. Lestrade found out, and I am in debt to him. Because of what I did, I decided to be a consulting detective, and so far I am the only one of my kind here…much like you.”

Watson sighed. “no…far too--.”

“We will talk about your unique and wonderful abilities later. I intend to ensure this doesn’t happen again.”

“t-the titan…he…”

“Tell me later. Calm down now. We need to get you to another hospital again.”

Watson frowned at Holmes, as if confused, but the whole of the area stopped feeling and acting so chaotic. Watson seemed surprised at this as Holmes got to his uninjured side and helped him stand up, yelling up quite loudly, “We need a doctor!”

“t-titan is..”

“Again, quiet. Is he alive?”

Watson finally nodded slowly. “barely…”

“Good,” Holmes managed as Lestrade came down with a few men that had a stretcher, and Holmes began to order them around, Lestrade backing him up and soon, Watson was taken upstairs and the body of the unconscious, half-dead Titan was recovered.

\--

“If you continue to get hurt, I must ask that you at least warn me of it,” Holmes muttered as Watson ate his soup, Mrs. Hudson hovering over him. It had been a week and Watson had been in such a state of mental and physical unrest that Holmes was beginning to think that simply working on him from the ground up would be the best approach. He’d had to tell Mrs. Hudson after Watson had experienced a vivid nightmare that resulted in all the doors not opening for a good hour, and despite Watson’s fear of how she would react, the difference had only been on her seeming to make more of his favorite foods and also trying to help him.

“I will try to not to save you from possibly danger situations next time,” Watson replied, glaring back at him.

“I did not ask that. Simply that you stop getting hurt, or at least warn me when you do. You are a very interesting and intelligent fellow, and I would be loathed to find another person to share digs with me. It’s harder for me to make friends and losing one that I just found would create a rather black mood in me for quite a number of days.”

Watson had paused at one point and Holmes frowned at it, thinking he was simply annoyed with Holmes’ words, but noticing that Mrs. Hudson was worried as well, Holmes moved to the table and sat down. “Watson?”

“You…you shouldn’t lie so. I’m no friend.”

Holmes considered if hitting him upside the head would throw out that undesirable belief that Watson seemed to hold of him not being worthy of anything. Yet another reason he didn’t want either Murray or Stamford to be near him again.

“Rubbish,” Mrs. Hudson said, “Mr. Holmes only lies to his landlady and clients…since you’re neither, he’s obviously telling the truth. And if you’re going to sit there, then you’re getting food as well.”

Holmes sighed, accepting his punishment for being slightly nice as he watched Watson, his mind obviously attempting to get around the idea that he had two people who not only didn’t care about his powers, but encouraged their use. Those two people were also filling the role of being friends and family.

It was only after Holmes got his soup and Mrs. Hudson left with the empty tray that Watson spoke. “I’m sorry…I don’t…”

“If we’re to be friends, I request you don’t apologize. In fact, I quite like it when you’re being annoyed at me, or at least questing my judgments.”

“You don’t seem to accept that I will, at one point, act like this.”

“I do, I simply discourage it. You’ve a strong mind and have untold potential. I fully believe that you’re a person who should find that potential and work on your mind. Lestrade knew you were a smart man from that paper you wrote in college, and I know you simply because I’ve gotten to know you. Keeping in your power will not help at all…if anything, it’s only caused you more problems than mastering it has.”

Watson moved the remaining soup around with his spoon, then let it go, apparently not noticing that the spoon continued on its way without his physical assistance. “I cannot! Why should I attempt to do the impossible? All it’s done is hurt others…”

Holmes sighed again. “Hardly. The 66th survived when most had been destroyed, and a few of the other religions believe you to be an enlightened being, or at least a god. It’s your lack of practice which makes things hard, and while I do not claim to enjoy learning or relearning something, I will say it can be done.” He finally pointed to the spoon, which stopped abruptly when Watson noticed it. “You moved it unconsciously yet can stop it consciously. Wouldn’t that suggest you can move and stop it consciously?”

Watson sighed. “I…” he paused again, then said, “For a few years, I did what I could with it. It was simply something that I could use, like an extra set of hands, but then…a tree was falling. I stopped it, saved the life of a boy. We had to move, though. They…my father and brother blamed me for it, because the boy would say something, and people would notice that I was different, and then Uncle’s work would be taken away and I would be…harmed, or killed, or bring more harm to them. Another time, I got angry and a loose brick nearly hit someone. After that…I had to control it. I couldn’t allow it to hurt people, just because it…it feels natural to me. It isn’t, though…”

The spoon had started moving again, and Holmes smiled as Watson ignored it. “Perhaps it is, though, at least for you. I would enjoy very much to have an extra set of eyes or hands, though with you I suppose that is taken care of, and I must admit that anyone who tells you to hide a power rather than master it, so as to hide it better, is a fool. I know it was your father, but both of ours seems to both have been fools in their own way.” He gave a small smile to Watson as the spoon stopped. “If not for me, then at least for Mrs. Hudson…if you don’t, she’ll become quite annoying and I’ll have no peace. Of course, neither will you, but for me it will be very disturbing.”

“You’re a selfish bastard, aren’t you?”

“You’re only now figuring that out?” Holmes asked, packing his pipe, “I am offering to help you learn to control a power that, so far, has won a war and solved a case. Gregson reported the Titan was sent back, apparently being something of an outlaw and one to cause problems.” He waited and lit his pipe. “You’re the one person I can stand, and I find it both ironic and quite helpful that you are who you are. So, my dear Watson…let us learn to live together, and figure out how you can make those extra hands of yours listen to your demands.”


	3. The Inventor and the Interpreter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes' brother is introduced. Watson learns more about his power. A case is given, which is both extensive and terrible.

The fine layer of paperwork that two months worth of newspapers, telegrams, printouts, and various other things was floating up and slowly began to move into the various areas files and such that Holmes had set up to hold all his files. The test of ensuring the dense forest of papers had been one of the few random tests that helped Watson control his powers, or at least enough of it, and currently Holmes was also adding in distractions to the training.

“I suppose I get some of my deductive powers from my mother’s side. My father’s were country squires, while my mother’s was artists…my grandmother was a sister of Vernet, you know?”

Watson didn’t answer, as he wasn’t sure if he should or not. It had been two months since his wound was reopened, and since then he’d worked on both physical and mental rehabilitation, Holmes and Mrs. Hudson helping him how they could. In truth, Holmes was the one who helped him the most, due to his simple belief that, no matter what Watson’s previous experiences, he could do what was asked of him so long as he mastered his mind.

“Well, art in the blood takes the strangest forms. My brother, Mycroft for example—“

All the papers suddenly fell, and Holmes frowned, looking over and happily seeing none had caught fire or fallen into the grate. “I did mention him before, Watson.”

“You didn’t start talking about him, though, or give me his name,” Watson pointed out, and after a moment the papers slowly rose again. “You were just toying with me, I suppose.”

Holmes rolled his eyes at that. “I could take you to meet him.”

Watson looked back at him as some of the papers were put away. He frowned after a minute and looked back to focus on the papers, attempting to finish things up. “Why bring this up now?”

Holmes sighed and Watson attempted to ignore him. Holmes was still as strange and contrary as he’d been before starting to take on the job of helping Watson control his powers. It had dawned on Watson during his rehabilitation that Holmes’ simple demands, even while he’d been in pain and frightened, had succeeded in making him control his powers, and it both annoyed and amazed him that anyone would have such power over him.

Annoyed, because it seemed that Holmes had a better understanding of his own mind then Watson did, and in truth, Watson hated realizing how little he really knew about himself. Amazed, because for the first time, he had someone who wasn’t about to tell him what to do with his powers, who encouraged him to learn the full extent of them and who’s encouragement and strict nature kept him from losing control.

“I brought it up, again,” Holmes said as the rest of the papers went into their spots, “because I wanted to see your reaction. I do not claim to know anything about the mind, but I find you’re more distracted by talks of family than anything else.”

“It doesn’t help that my own family was…” Watson stopped as he finished. “I would like to meet him. Tell me at least a little.”

Holmes frowned, giving him the look that said he wanted to ask more about what Watson started to say but was unsure how far it would get him. Watson’s early years, as well as his time between Maiwand and Holmes tracking him to Hope’s room, had been vague and left that way for various reasons, one of which being that losing control of his emotions tended to end badly.

A knock on the door stopped his attempt and he stood, going over to get the one telegram from Mrs. Hudson and chuckling. “We’ll have to talk on the way over. My brother apparently needs my services, which, I will tell you now, is quite a lovely turn on our normal circumstances. Would you like to come along?”

“Of course,” Watson said, standing to get his coat and hat, “You won’t mind my company?”

Holmes smiled at him as he grabbed his own coat and hat. “Of course not! I get things done far quicker with you listening as well instead of being absent.”

\--

The carriage ride was filled with Holmes’ voice mainly occupied the ride towards a small combination of a type of club and restaurant-bistro, and an upper floor of some rooms. The name of it, the Diogenes, surprised Watson, as did Holmes’ description of his brother.

“My brother is seven years my senior,” Holmes had said, “and a little different from me. He takes great pride in scientific discoveries, but whenever he has no ideas, he has absolutely no energy for anything, save perhaps one vice.”

“He left before you did?”

“When he was fourteen, though I never quite got the full story behind his reasons, I think it had to do with following a target for too long and possibly learned a little about himself. Either way, he should be upstairs.”

The Diogenes was a quiet bistro, dissimilar to any other club or similar bistro, as it had no real outside area, and the inside seemed full of men and Denebolans who were more interested in reading or drinking on comfy chairs and at tables then talking. Watson frowned for a second before Holmes lead him to the back, nodding to a waitress as they passed and, upon closing the door, whispering, “It’s a rather queer sort of club, you see, and talking is a sort of unspoken taboo. Most of the men there simply need a good place to be alone, and many are unclubbable. It works out quite well, I suppose, and most are helped in one way or another by Mycroft.” They continued up the stairs until they reached a door, Holmes knocking twice before entering.

The room seemed a combination of the chemistry area that Holmes had set up himself, only with more equipment, and the bistro downstairs, though another door to one side, possibly to the bedroom or toilet, made this effect less. A large man straightened from one end of the table, the man about as tall as Holmes but filling out as much of the form, though Watson was unsure if he should call him ‘fat’ or simply ‘filled out. He had a smile on his face, his watery gray eyes alight with the same passionate fire that Holmes also had while on a case, and walked over to the two of them, though his eyes seemed more focused on Holmes.

“Well, Sherlock, you’ve come at quite a time. I successfully finished my blood test.”

“Blood test?” Watson questioned, causing the taller man to give him an once-over look before stating, “A way to tell if the blood is Human or not. I’m working on identifications for the others who have similar coloring or who can’t always be told apart from other beings until a specialized computer is used, and not always, as at least four are down to the genetic level. This, though, only reacts to human blood. Would you like to see a test…um…”

“Ah, Mycroft,” Holmes said, “this is Doctor Watson. I think I spoke to you about him before?”

“You haven’t,” Mycroft pointed out, putting the flask down and cleaning off his hands before offering one to Watson, “You really must forgive Sherlock…he’s terrible at telling people information sometimes. Mycroft Holmes, at your service. Would you like to see how this works?”

Watson did, only from the looks of it, Mycroft Holmes expected his blood, and how--

“You sent me something about urgent request you couldn’t solve yourself?” Holmes interrupted, glaring at his older brother as he frowned at him, sighing and motioning for the two to sit.

“It’s not so much what happened with me, but with my fellow lodger, Mr. Melas. As my brother is horrible at explaining, I’m horrible at retelling stories. I’ll see if he’s better.”

“Better? What happened?” Holmes asked as Mycroft stood, heading for the door and disappearing through the other door. Watson looked over at Holmes as he sighed.

“That was a very bad change of subject,” he said simply, glancing at Holmes.

Holmes chuckled. “Mycroft enjoys showing off his inventions. I think he wouldn’t have batted an eyelash at the fact you registered as non-human. In fact, he might have congratulated me, than spent the next few hours attempting to figure out which species you were.”

“I’m beginning to see the family resemblance, at least there,” Watson managed as Mycroft came back, another man following him. The man sported a small bruise on the lower side of his chin, his dark hair and mustache, thin-rimmed glasses and nervous attitude making Watson stand and go to him, his instinct to heal and calm overriding his annoyance at the two Holmes brothers.

The man smiled at Watson as he looked over the bruise, soon finding that most of the man’s right side was bruised, and he saying, in accented English, “It is alright. I am fine, truly.”

“Mr. Melas, this is my brother, Sherlock, and his friend, Watson. Apparently Watson is a doctor, so I’d let him at least check the bruising.”

Melas blushed at that, allowing Watson to check him over as he explained, “You see, I am Greek by birth and my family moved to England when I was young, to have a job as an Interpreters. I know most Human languages, but pride myself on being able to speak Epimedian, the group of Denebolans who are similar, at least in pantheon, to my Greek heritage.”

Holmes nodded. “I’ve heard of them. The Greek nation and Epimedians are attempting to see if there’s any reason for it, perhaps a space-going culture that attempted to show off their power to early humans, or at least became a basis. But please, the case you want us in that gave you such bruising?”

Melas nodded as Watson stood, giving him a warm smile and returning to his own seat. “Well, as one of the better known Interpreters around Pall Mall, I’m used to being called upon at various hours, so I was not quite surprised to have a visitor two nights ago at a late hour.

“The man, a Mr. Latimer, said that it was important I come, for they needed someone who could speak both Greek and Epimedian. He seemed to wish we leave quickly and said we were heading to Kensington, but when I commented on the length, he threatened me with great violence if I continued. I did try to listen to take in what I could, but between the late hour and the rather violent companion, I could only tell a few things, and most I doubted with the time it took to get to the house.”

Holmes motioned for him to continue after Watson moved away, frowning a little but stating, “You’ll be fine, Mr. Melas, it should be better in a few days.”

Mycroft gave him a thankful smile as Melas continued his story. “When we reached the house, I was brought in quickly, and met another man, who seemed to have a rather sinister smile on his face and laughed rather annoyingly, before I was put into a small room and another man was brought before me. He was an Epimedian, but would only answer Greek. He had sticking plaster on his face, covering his mouth, and his coloring was so pale that it was soon obvious to me the man was being used horribly, and after a while I found of asking what felt like the same question, I attempted added in others of my own. The two men who circled around us, demanding answers, did not notice and the man seemed grateful for my questions, but tired.”

“What did you find out?” Watson asked, curious.

“The man’s name is Kraides, and he is from Athens. From what I could gather of my time, I learned that a woman was involved, as well as odd papers to be signed. He was being starved and had been in London for three weeks. Another few minutes and I might have gotten everything, but then a woman came through the door. I saw her very plainly, and she was very tall, graceful woman with dark hair. I recognized her easily as one of my fellow Greeks, and she spoke in broken English to one man, saying ‘Harold, I was wondering—‘ then, upon seeing the man, switched to Greek, crying out, ‘Oh God, Kraides!’ and rushed towards him. The emancipated man tore off the plaster, saying, ‘Sophy!’ and embracing before the two men tried to separate them. I fear many of these bruises came from my attempt to help the man and women when the other two tried to separate them. I was hit back, the younger man Harold dragging the girl out and Mr. Latimer taking away the Epimedian. I was left alone for some time, but I had been hit and kicked enough to be dazed, and by the time I stood and attempted to thinking of escape, the other man Harold reappeared, giggling and giving me five sovereigns for my troubles, but warning that if I spoke of this to anyone…well, I would get worst then my attempt to help the poor man they held prisoner. I was soon pushed into a vehicle and after another two hours or so of driving, was pushed out and found myself far away from my home. I was lucky enough to find a way to a phone and telephone Mycroft, for I was in Wandsworth Commons and quite scared. He was able to calm me and soon I was able to get home in the early morning of Tuesday. After I told Mycroft, he suggested I speak to you. And that is my story.”

Holmes gave him a small smile, motioning to Mycroft quickly as the two walked off to one side, leaving Watson alone to speak to Melas.

“Are they usually this secretive?” Melas asked, looking over at Watson.

“I’m not quite sure. I’ve only known Sherlock Holmes for perhaps three months straight. Are you sure you’re quite alright?”

“I am. I am worried, though…one of the Diogenes learned about it and said I should put in an advertisement, but if I do…”

Watson nodded, understanding. Being too scared to go anywhere had been a constant companion in his life, and he sympathized with the other man’s plight.

“Unluckily,” Mycroft spoke up, holding up the Daily News, “he took it upon himself to say it anyway. I’m not quite sure where he got all the information, but…well, that’s that.”

“Perhaps you should have stricter rules about quiet,” Holmes said as they walked up, Watson taking the paper for himself and Melas to read, “Speaking in an area without sound is like shouting in a crowded room.”

“We’re upstairs, Sherlock, and we didn’t speak of it until before anyone was allowed inside. Really.”

Melas was pale himself as Watson read the advertisement, “’Anybody supplying any information to the whereabouts of an Epimedian gentleman named Kratides, from Athens, who only speaks Greek. A similar reward paid to any one giving information about a Greek lady whose first name is Sophy’…is this in all the newspapers?”

“It appears,” Mycroft said, then looked over at Holmes. “I did send some information to the Greek and Epimedian Legation, but neither have any knowledge.”

“Was that the point where you had a breakthrough?” Holmes asked.

“Somewhere, also we were far too worried to do anything else. Melas has been inside the whole day, and you are the first people we’ve spoken to.”

Holmes sighed, thinking. “The fact that they might know gives this a rather dangerous edge. Epimedians are known to be able to hold on for two months without food or water, but these men are obviously attempting to break him down. As he only speaks Greek, and the Greek lady knows him, I’ll see if I can contact the Athens police. The problem now, is who shall guard Mr. Melas.”

Mycroft blinked. “He’s perfectly fine here, Sherlock.”

Holmes shook his head. “No, he’s not. That the group knows he’s here is dangerous, and I know you after figuring out the solution to a problem.”

“That can wait until tomorrow. I fully plan on ensuring my Alexis--.”

The room went quite silent. Holmes was glaring at Mycroft and Melas equally. Watson was looking skyward, and managed a sigh before saying rather strictly, “No matter if you stay to ensure his safety or not, you don’t seem to have anything beyond chemicals as a deterrent for them, and while I do not doubt your ability, I do doubt the ability to withstand fire or a gun. Your brother will be on the move all day, which will make it harder for them to find either. If they are downstairs now, though, it might make things easier, so unless you two are going to have a sibling squabble now, I suggest we come up with a plan to keep Mr. Melas safe. Or I will do it myself.”

Holmes’ glare now turned to him and Watson returned it. He owed Holmes for many things but was far from being a simple friend to him. In the face of this possible danger to a client as well, he found no reason for Holmes to be attempting to glare down his brother as well. The thought was old-fashioned, though many still shared it, and Watson honestly didn’t feel this was the time or place for such a thing.  
Holmes finally relented. “We shall all go out, Mr. Melas and Mycroft between us. I will take him with me, and you both will head to Baker Street. We’ll redirect any information to go to Baker Street, and from there we can hopefully get the man out of harm’s way.”

Mycroft gave him a small smile and nodded, going to get the two’s coat and hats from the other room. Mr. Melas looked a little worried, but another glare from Watson caused Holmes to remain silent. He was quite sure this was due to the fact that the few times Watson had been emotionally unstable, things tended to break or end badly.

Watson sighed, attempting to calm himself down as Mycroft returned, giving Melas his coat and hat. It didn’t do him any service to hold his temper over Holmes as far as being civil. It wouldn’t help his relations at all if he only used his powers to intimidate…what would that make him, to threaten a rain of rocks or something equally cruel if people wouldn’t do as he asked?

The four headed out, pausing to speak to the waitress again before calling a cab and departing.

\--

Holmes watched Watson slowly, wondering if the man knew how open his face was. The annoyance from earlier was something Holmes would’ve expected, but then again his brother had given him rather a hard shock and it had angered him to no end that his brother thought he should keep secrets from him. He had a general idea as to the reasons for Mycroft’s leaving, but the actual fact staring him in the face and demanding help had not left him time to consider his words at the moment, or lack of words in that case.

But right now, Watson wasn’t feeling pride at having so quickly defused a situation where two men of great intellect was about to have words, but rather fear of his own abilities. Holmes disliked these remains of his past fears and had done what he could to deter them, but it appeared that currently there was going to be little chance of it. He considered briefly telling Mycroft of it, but was uncertain that it would do any good for the hopefully short span of time they’d be together.

They reached a telegraph office a few streets down before Holmes knocked for the cab to stop, paying for the first half of the trip as he and Melas got out. “Watson, please make sure my brother is alright. I know they will come after Melas but I’m uncertain how much they know and how likely they are to go after everyone who knows. If you must…I highly advise losing your temper, if only a little.”

Watson blinked at him in surprise, but finally nodded his understanding. Holmes gave him a reassuring smile before closing the cab door, heading over to where Mr. Melas was waiting, heading into the telegraph office.

As he was writing out the correspondence, Mr. Melas shifted a little. “Mr. Holmes, about--.”

“I do not intend to talk about the relationship you have with my brother until after you are out of danger. As that will possibly not be until we discover who the men are that took you, as well as where they are, I suggest you don’t bring it up.”

Melas sighed, nodding as Holmes sent the message, sitting back in the chair. “I know such a thing is hard to consider, with how some of the technology is, but there are those who go undetected, and sometimes, the older is better.”

Melas nodded. “Mycroft says so as well, I suppose it’s true. Do you think they’re monitoring computers as well?”

“It could be all they are, but so far I’m not sure what they want. You said they were asking to sign papers…the lady could speak English but the man could not…yet why would he not speak Epimedian?” He glanced at the door and frowned as he felt Melas’ hand on his arm. There were only a few thoughts through his mind before he slowly stood, the Greek following him.

“Quickly,” he muttered as they left the area towards the more crowded arcade to one side, “and quietly. If I can, I’ll at least get you to Baker Street.”

The two made to the arcade, Holmes motioning subtly to one of the Irregulars as they passed, making it to the end of the road before he noticed another man coming up to them, a smaller man then the one following them, his glasses shining and his grin sinister for his seemingly insignificant self.

Damn, Holmes thought, looking around for a way to escape when he felt a hand on his shoulder, Melas freezing in fear, possibly from what felt like a gun at his back.

“Ah, Mr. Melas,” the smaller man muttered, giggling as he came up, “really, you’ve given us quite some trouble, you and your friend. We must remedy that.”

\--

 _I highly advise losing your temper, if only a little._

Watson looked upward at the ceiling, attempting to control his emotions by guessing through that odd power of touch what was above them, a strange ability he was still learning about as well as attempting to classify. From all the literature that he’d read on Titan powers, none included this one, and he wondered briefly if it was because of the mixed heritage.

“What’s taking so long?” Mycroft’s voice spilled into his chain of thought, causing Watson to sigh and rub his forehead. They had only just arrived at Baker Street when a note came by, stating it knew the woman in question and that she lived in The Myrtles, Beckenham. Mycroft had wanted to visit the man who sent it, but Watson had retaliated that they should go to see the police instead. When Wiggins appeared, breathless and only able to get out, “they have—“, both men were out and heading to the station.

That was nearly an hour ago. Watson’s plea about the case had Gregson working the case, but he could only work so fast to get authorization. A note from the Athenian police, as well as a call to the man who’d sent the note, had enough evidence for a search and seizure, but it was taking far too long for all the official channels to go through.

Watson looked upward again towards the ceiling, hoping again to continue the count.

“Doctor,” Mycroft interrupted him again, Watson closing his eyes before looking back to the taller, larger man.

“Yes, Mr. Holmes?”

There was a small pause before Mycroft finally asked, “You have not known my brother long. Tell me…is he well?”

If there was a hidden meaning in there, Watson couldn’t hear it, and he didn’t hesitate to tell the truth. He’d never been a good liar. “He’s well enough, when we have cases or something to keep him occupied.”

“Do you know of our--.”

“Mr. Holmes, your brother tells me little, and what I have learned of his past I learned when he was attempting to calm me down after I’d been hurt. I can say he’s well, and that I do have an idea of your…early life…but both he and you seem to have had changes of heart.”

Mycroft was silent then chuckled. “You could say such a thing. It does not help that such a life leaves little to change and, when one finds yourself unable to think of a reason for doing what you’re asked to do. Both Sherlock and I found that out, and happily we can make something of ourselves.”

Gregson came up, holding the signed document. “Come on, gentlemen, I’ll get us a car.”

\--

The drive was much shorter then Melas remembered, but he was also quite terrified of what might happen. He’d never been much of a strong-willed person against others, though his attempt a few days ago had been more his romantic nature and the thought that, if he didn’t attempt anything beyond putting in small sentences, what would Mycroft think?

The two were pulled in, Sherlock Holmes obviously not wanting to do anything to provoke the man with the gun, though his movements spoke of a man who was used to fighting. Melas paled as they were put into the room from before, and now when he looked around, he saw that there was no escape.

“I-I’m very--.”

“You know, it really surprises me that you’re my brother’s type,” Holmes said, motioning for Melas to take a seat. “You shouldn’t be sorry at all. Knowledge of languages to your degree is astonishing, but can lead to dangerous areas. This possibly isn’t the first dangerous situation you’ve been in?”

Melas nodded, sighing as he sat next to Holmes, suddenly wishing that it was Mycroft with him, so that he could lean against him, feeling his warmth and calming, large hands. He always loved attempting to fully hug Mycroft, if only because it was like attempting to hug a large stuffed animal when one was a child, and Melas had always enjoyed that past time. He also loved the warmth that Mycroft gave off, the feeling of being held and protected by such a large being that seemed to simply engulf him, touching him all over—

“How did you two meet?” Melas felt himself blush in embarrassment at the question, wondering if he’d been thinking out loud.

“When your brother opened the bistro and put out an advertisement for someone to live there. I was the only one who could pay the money and who also was fine with his experiments. I knew that I was…different, and it hurts my family to realize this, but also I accept it as how I am. I learned that your brother was the same, and…he said it was, um, very helpful, that I was able to live with him as a friend as well as a lover.”

Melas was relieved to see Sherlock Holmes smile at that. “He would. You must forgive me, but my brother can be very lazy in many things. I am not surprised he was happy to find not only a roommate but also a lover, for it saved him that energy at least.”

Melas blushed a little, remembering that Mycroft was, well, rather energetic, at times. “I suppose, though I was hoping there was other reasons.”

“I doubt Mycroft would have bothered, had there not been,” Sherlock Holmes said rather sternly, “My brother is someone who doesn’t enter into anything long-term without weighing all the risks involved. He obviously cares a great deal for you, though, if he’s become so possessive and also careless to a degree.”

Melas looked at him, and Sherlock Holmes gave him a small smile. “It’s quite alright. I was rather put out to hear it in such a way, but we haven’t spoken for a while. It takes us a few moments to remember how to be civil with one another. We only have each other, you must understand.”

Sherlock Holmes managed a nod before the two men returned, this time with the emaciated Epimedian with the sticking plaster across his face and sporting a few more bruises as well. Melas felt himself tense, as well as felt the almost tangible glare that Sherlock Holmes was sending to the laughing man and his friend. If that was one thing he had in common with his brother, it was the fact that his presence seemed to always be the most dominant in the room, no matter who else was there.

The Epimedian was pushed into a seat, the gun keeping all three seated as the giggling man passed over a slate. “Now then, Mr. Melas, let us try this again, and please, no heroics this time. We wouldn’t want your friend to lose the use of his leg, would we?”

Melas cast a scared glance at Sherlock Holmes, and then slowly shook his head as the man giggled again. “Good. Now then, ask him to sign the papers.”

Melas looked down at the table, then to the man, and asked, along with a few other questions. If he survived but the man didn’t, at least he’d know the poor Epimedian’s history.

Sherlock Holmes continued to glare at the men, arms crossed in front of him as if he was the one waiting on them, and Melas took comfort in that fact, doing what he could to try and help the Epimedian, as well as learn what he could.

It was an hour later that the man with the gun growled, “Enough. We won’t get it, and that girl is going to try to escape again if we’re not quick. There’s no reason for us to still be here.”

\--

The room was already starting gain a choking atmosphere, and Holmes coughed again as he attempted to move closer to the charcoal filled tripod, Melas and Kratides tied to him and both against the nearest door. Kratides wasn’t in any form to actually help in the escape, and Melas had been hit by the larger, older man who seemed to enjoy showing how superior he was to everyone. Holmes had almost gotten the gun away from him, but that had caused the two men to strap them together, leaving Holmes without his hands or feet free, same as the others.

Holmes coughed and choked again, wincing at the pain in his lung. His mind was still working, realizing he could overturn the tripod without risking dying by fire instead of this slow choking death. At least their bodies would be intact…

Holmes shifted to lie down on the floor, breathing a little easier and hearing Melas slightly moan. He was a little awake, but the coughing wasn’t good, and he was quite sure that if anyone had to survive, at least Melas did. After all, Mycroft would be extremely depressed to lose someone he’d possibly just found—that raised the question he hadn’t asked, on how long he’d lived with Mycroft, and then how long they’d been lovers. If he moved in shortly after the Diogenes was founded, that was perhaps six years ago…or was it longer? Shorter? He hadn’t been paying attention to his brother before he came under Lestrade’s management.

He wasn’t thinking straight. He had to focus—another harsh cough from him jostled the two near the door, causing Kratides to moan loudly through the plaster. Holmes suspected that having to breath through the nose helped keep him alive.

Charcoal was working very fast, casing an eerie blue glow about them and he suddenly wished for some of Watson’s powers, at least to open a window or toss the tripod out. He attempted to calculate the time that had passed since they arrived, but the choking atmosphere made it hard for him to think at all, instead feeling a pain in his chest that left him focusing on the tightness in his throat, the lack of oxygen, the darkness that was swallowing up his vision though he could swear his eyes were still open.

He was aware of a sudden noise, very far away, but he couldn’t identify it. His whole body hurt, his mind shutting down as his lungs filled with the poisonous atmosphere.

\--

“Doctor!” Gregson hissed at Watson as he returned, stating he’d found a way in. Mycroft smiled a little as the disgruntled man headed back, then came to the door quickly to let us in.

“This isn’t good,” he said, looking up and around. Despite the Doctor’s outwardly Human appearance, one is not in the Resistance for as long as Mycroft was without noting the telltale signs of someone who isn’t Human, but Watson was a confusing sort of non-Human as well. The fact that Gregson, an obvious Denebolan, and Lestrade, a Human, had come to his aid meant something that Mycroft wasn’t quite sure what the Doctor’s origins were.

They were able to look around, Watson’s eyes on the ceiling and frowning in concentration before his eyes widened, pointing upstairs as a moan was heard.

Watson and Gregson were up the stairs before Mycroft, if only due to his bulk, and found them next to a door that was opened, noxious smoke pouring out as Gregson yelled in, “Doctor, what in the name of—“

Three figures were promptly dropped out, leaving Gregson and Mycroft to deal with them as a window flew open and a bluish flame went out of it. Watson came back out, coughing lightly and managing, “Charcoal” before falling down before the three men, checking on them despite shaking hands. Mycroft got Sherlock and Alexis free, his brother slowly coming to himself and coughing swifter then Alexis did, prompting Mycroft to care for him more and even place a few kisses on his face before he took in a weak breath. The other man, Kratides, was half-dead and Watson was caring for him a great deal, ordering him to be moved downstairs.

Mycroft carried Alexis downstairs as well, Sherlock helping Watson up despite the two not looking their best.

“Time,” Sherlock managed, reminding Mycroft that the young man often used his mind to convince his body to keep going, despite the hardships within. It had always surprised the older members of the group, and Mycroft found their continue attempts to test Sherlock’s limits all the more reason to take him away from such a life. He’d been unable to earlier, and always hated that fact.

Gregson looked over at him, “Really, Mr. Holmes, you can’t possibly--.”

Watson shot him a glare, and Mycroft blinked upon seeing the odd blue that they now were. Upstairs, a door suddenly slammed shut.

“Really, Watson,” Sherlock muttered quietly, causing Watson to pale suddenly. “We must talk about this later, though. But a young woman is in danger, and we must get to her.”

Alexis shifted against Mycroft, causing him to look down at his lover, who spoke quickly and quietly in French. Mycroft loved hearing him talk in French, but even more he loved to get him so lost he forget every language save Greek.

Mycroft frowned at the quick news. “He’s quite right, Inspector.” Reluctantly, Mycroft moved Alexis to a chair. “You must get the story from my Alexis…Mr. Melas, I mean…”

Gregson looked skyward. “Really, Humans, I’ve been to planets where one gender lives together and loves for years before they have an orgy of sorts to create the next generation.”

“We’re off topic,” Watson said in a quiet voice, “Mr. Mycroft Holmes…would you care to accompany us? I’m afraid I won’t be able to carry your brother on my own.”

“I’m thin enough.”

“I’m not able to breathe charcoal and save your sorry--.”

“I planned to join you,” Mycroft cut the two off, earning a thankful look from Gregson, “but we must be off now, without any fuss.”

The two nodded, and Mycroft resolved to speak about Watson to Sherlock after all the excitement.

\--

The coach got them to the station just short of the train pulling out, though it required Watson to run ahead, Holmes to push his brother into the compartment, and Holmes to barely get inside before the end of the platform and close the door.

“Really, Sherlock, I’m not built for this,” Mycroft huffed as they sat, Watson glancing out the window. He’d lost his temper a little, and locked the doors upstairs. He disliked the fact that his loss of control resulted—

“Watson, if you persist in glaring at yourself for acting as any concerned and angered man would, I will have to consider you far less talented then I originally believed,” Holmes’ voice caused him to start, glancing at the man’s pale face. As nothing moved or cracked, it only seemed to prove all the more how much of a hold the man had over his life and power, despite it being his own life and his power.

“I take it you’re afraid of what might happen,” Mycroft proposed, earning glare from Holmes, “You must forgive me, Sherlock, but I only just made the connection. I never could abide hearing Moran’s tales, but he did mention a Watson, and his…unique…attempt to create a half-Human. You’re part Titan?”

Watson sighed, nodding.

Mycroft smiled at that. “It is quite strange, then, that the only person who can room with my brother is one that will force him to confront our past.” Watson frowned at him for that, Holmes giving him a reassuring smile before saying, “I take it you want a chance at Mr. Latimer?”

Mycroft’s grin was rather wicked. “Why of course, my dear Sherlock. He harmed and frightened my lover, then kidnapped both my younger brother and my lover, and attempted to kill both?”

Holmes chuckled, coughing slightly and then returning Mycroft’s smile. “Of course, brother mine. I should’ve guessed your protective nature from the beginning.” He looked over at Watson. “Can you find the three?”

Watson glanced at him, then slowly nodded. “Did you know, about...this new power?”

“I had a guess. That you can tell a paper by feel rather than reading it, and move only that instead of all the furniture, gave me the idea that you might be able to. I’m not sure if you can detect three specific people in a car full of them, but we must try it.”

Watson nodded, looking forward and concentrating. He did feel anger for the two men that had brutalized and frightened Mr. Melas and Holmes, if only because he’d resolved to repay Holmes for the times he’d saved him. So far, he was only even for once. “There are perhaps two compartments further up…two men and a woman. I’m not sure which one is the group, though.”

Holmes considered. “Latimer had a gun. I think his compatriot might have had a smaller one as well.”

Watson nodded, trying again and suddenly feeling it again. There was an odd feeling of pressure being released, as if instead of reaching and searching with his mind, he was doing so with his hand or eyes, or perhaps both. He’d heard of people who could see sounds as colors, and wondered if this is what it felt like, as if he could see waves through the compartments and to the one who had gunpowder on their hands and two guns in their coats. He could almost hear them…

 _What are you doing to him, you unnatural cur!? It’s all your fault! Use those again and I’ll thrash you, boy!_

Watson gasped, and the window suddenly gained a long, jagged crack, looking like a tree that was being struck by lightning.

“Watson,” a hand, much larger then Holmes’ was on his hand and Holmes’ concerned face made it’s way into his field of vision. He realized suddenly that he was shaking.

“T-they’re further up. One’s going to dinner.”

Mycroft’s hand squeezed his, warm and flapper-like. Watson sighed, attempting to control himself as he heard the porter coming down the way, calling for tickets.

Holmes looked over than back to Watson. “I won’t ask for who it was that left…”

“The one with the smaller pistol.”

Mycroft let go of his hand. “Sherlock, I do feel quite hungry. Could you and Doctor Watson keep your talk with the man short? And if it is Latimer, attempt to keep him around?”

“Of course,” Holmes smiled happily as the two stood, Mycroft going and speaking quietly with the ticket collector as Holmes touched Watson’s arm. “Do you wish to speak about it?”

“No,” Watson said, “but I will have to, at one point.”

“Sadly, it cannot be now. We have a damsel to rescue. Do you at least have your service revolver?”

Watson nodded. At least with that, he knew what to expect.

“Good man. Now…shall we?”

\--

Mycroft had every confidence in both Sherlock and Doctor Watson, glancing at the compartment that Watson had mentioned to see the smaller, bespeckled man in there with a woman glaring at him but obviously unable to do anything. The fact that he wanted to deal with both men on his own was too difficult. He would leave Sherlock to take care of this one.

Making his way to the dining car, he spotted the man that Alexis had described as Mr. Latimer.

He was sitting, eating with a smile on his smug face, and appearing for all the world as if he had done the best thing. He didn’t seem to care that he’d left three men to die a horrible death, or even that he had seduced and kidnapped a woman after abusing and holding someone dear to her hostage.

Plastering a smile on his face, he walked over, greeting the man. “I believe I’ve seen you at the Diogenes.”

The man suddenly smiled. “Perhaps. It’s a very nice bistro, isn’t it? I enjoy the silence…it allows a man to think, doesn’t it?”

“Indeed it does,” Mycroft agreed, ordering a glass of wine. It wouldn’t take a long while to get the man to talk, and if anything, he could at least give Sherlock and Watson time to deal with the other man.

\--

Compartment B4 held the two, both preoccupied with each other when Holmes looked in, shifting back to whisper to Watson, “there is some danger in this.”

Watson nodded, and Holmes offered him a quick smile before opening the compartment door. Both looked at him, and he managed a small Greek phrase before sitting next to Mr. Kemp, who’s eyes widened upon seeing Holmes, his hand reaching into his jacket before he saw Watson’s gun, which he kept trained on the man before closing the door.

Holmes smiled at the small man. “I take it, for now, you no longer think of this as a joke, Mr. Kemp. I’m glad to see I could finally get a straight answer out of you.”

Mr. Kemp removed his hand slowly, the woman glancing at the two before looking over at Holmes, recognizing him to a point then.

“If you wouldn’t mind,” Holmes said, “could you get the gun, Miss?”

She nodded, reaching over to get the gun out, Kemp keeping an eye on Holmes’ gun instead.

“Thank you,” Holmes said as she readied the gun herself, glaring at the man.

“Miss…” Watson warned, looking worried while she muttered in Greek.

Holmes looked over at her before stating, “Kratides is alive.”

“Barely,” the woman ground out, “and because of him. Εμπιστεύθηκα αυτό το άτομο, και έβλαψε τον αδελφό μου, άλλος, ο ίδιος. Γιατί shouldn' τ τον σκοτώνω?”

Watson looked over at Holmes as he sighed. “If you do that, I must take you in for justice. Will that not hurt Kratides all the more?”

The woman kept the gun on Kemp anyway, Watson looking over at her before saying, “What is your relation to him, ma’am? Might I ask?”

She slowly nodded. “He is like a brother to me. I came here and was met by this man’s smooth-talking friend, and he attempted to convince me to love him. When I found out Kratides was here…I should at least shoot him in the leg, to hurt him as he hurt my Kratides.”

Watson frowned and looked over at Kemp, who sneered at that before looking back at the woman. “You love him?”

“I love Kratides,” the woman said, “I loved him since I was a child. My parents sent me here because they thought I would find a good person, and Kratides came to save me. I will not allow them to harm anyone else.”

Watson slowly reached over and touched the woman’s arm. “He survived, and you are also alive. Don’t worry about harming this man…he is defeated.” Watson glared at the mildly sneering man, who paled even more, “What else can he do to you? He is going to be put away for attempted murder and kidnapping. That is enough time that he cannot harm you anyway.”

Holmes smiled at Watson, though kept his gun trained on Kemp. The small man looked nervously between the woman and Holmes, as if attempting to figure out which one he could attack. That there was Watson as well, despite his pale look and stiffly-held arm, was still imposing.

Still, Holmes didn’t expect the man to move after the young woman and Watson, the woman panicking and attempting to pull the trigger only to hear a soft ‘click’, signaling an empty chamber and, possibly, empty gun.

\--

“The Continent? How nice. You know, I’ve never been away from England.”

“Oh sir, that’s a horrible thing. You must at least go there, and if you have to choose any spot, you must choose Greece.”

“Greece? Why there?”

“Why sir, it is the country of gods, and the women…well, they have fire in their blood.” The man took another sip of wine.

“You speak Greek, then?”

He blinked considering, “No…but, if you are lucky, you can get the…right interpreter.”

Mycroft felt himself smile emptily while planning on how to break the man’s fingers. “Of course…the right type of interpreter can make the difference in anything.”

\--

Watson grappled with the man, Kemp’s foot connecting with Holmes’ chest and causing him to cough harshly, not setting the gun off as the two were both too close to get in a clear shot in the crowded compartment. The young woman was stuck under the two for a moment before Watson pushed Kemp back, allowing her to get out of the way before Kemp hit his wounded shoulder, making Watson grit his teeth against the sudden flair up of pain, Kemp suddenly flying up and against the wall of the compartment hard enough to crack the wood.

The young woman blinked as Watson shifted away, Kemp falling back down against the seat, unconscious. Both Watson and the woman were shaking with fear, and Holmes glanced between the two of them before reaching to grab Watson’s hand, pulling him so the three were situation to where he was between the two, the girl turned in against his shoulder while Watson was simply resting against his shoulder, blinking and looking in amazement at the unconscious man before them.

“I…I could have…”

“He’s not dead, and you didn’t. Either way, he would have killed three men and lived with it. He deserved to be harmed.”

“Holmes…”

“Your friend is right,” the quiet voice from the women came from Holmes’ shoulder, the two looking over at her and Watson’s shaking lessening, “he…gloated that Kratides would be killed, and that two others would follow him. He was…” she muttered a long string of what sounded like obscenities. “I am glad you hurt him.”

Watson sighed. “You’re not…”

“You are different. Kratides is different. I love him. I thank you for saving me, sir.”

Watson relaxed quite suddenly. “Oh…”

“Are you alright, Watson?”

“I will be…my shoulder just hurts. It seems to throw my control into the wind.”

Holmes slowly sat down with the young woman, who was slowly relaxed as well. Holmes shifted enough to get the gun and check it, seeing that it had only one bullet before he took it out and put it on the seat behind him.

\--

Mycroft stood up as Latimer did, the man leaving some money behind and smiling at the larger man. “Well, this has been a good talk. I hope you do get a chance to travel, though. It was nice to talk to you.”

The car suddenly shook, causing Latimer to fall against Mycroft as he started to sit again, but his large size helped keep the two up, Mycroft suddenly smiling at him. “Forgive me. I forget my size at times…”

Latimer smiled at him and left, Mycroft quietly following him. For all that he was a large man, he also knew how to use his bulk and was quite able to move easily and quietly when he needed to. After all, few expected someone of his weight to be able to do so.

Mr. Latimer stopped at the compartment, looking over at whatever was in the compartment and reaching into his pocket.

Mycroft’s hand fell on the man’s shoulder, gripping it a little tighter then he might have needed to, and the gun he’d stolen from Mr. Latimer now pressed harshly against the man’s head. “I believe you’re looking for this?”

Latimer froze, and Mycroft looked over his shoulder to see what was going on.

Watson and the young woman were sitting on the side, an unconscious man to one side. Watson had the gun in his good hand and obviously was annoyed with the pain in his shoulder. Sherlock was on the other side, breathing slowly and obviously having lost all of his reason to keep going and now needed to rest.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock said upon seeing him, “Really…you were a little too kind to him, after what happened.”

“True,” Mycroft muttered, “but this area is crowded. I’ll take him back to ours and you can have him at the end of the line.”

The woman looked perfectly fine with that idea, glaring daggers at the man. Watson frowned at him, obviously worried.

“Oh, it’s quite alright, Doctor. I’ll ensure he stays alive.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about,” Watson muttered, Sherlock smiling at that and Mycroft also added in his own, though much colder, smile before pulling Latimer away. “Come along, and don’t fuss. Or do, I would so enjoy a reason to hurt you before we’re alone.”

“Why?” Latimer asked as they walked, “Why are you two helping that thing gain a Human for a wife? She shouldn’t be with such a man.”

“How old-fashioned of you. I’m not helping the lady out of knowledge of her or her plight, but rather I’m hurting you,” they had reached his compartment, “because you hurt two people I have cared deeply for, and I do not take kindly to such things.”

\--

“Sir, you could’ve not broken his fingers.”

“I promised myself I would, Inspector, so please don’t lecture me,” Mycroft said, looking over at the other carriage, “Is Mr. Melas alright?”

“He’s going to be well, the police doctor said a few days rest will be the best for him,” Inspector Gregson looked over at Holmes and Watson. “Are you both alright?”

Watson nodded, looking better than he did earlier, and Holmes smiled a little, still paler then before but obviously much better. “And Kratides? He’s quite alright?”

“He’s in the police hospital, resting. We took his statement with Mr. Melas when he was well enough to speak, and the note helped us as well. It’s enough for a charge, anyway.”

The woman looked worried, Gregson looking over at her and tipping his hat. “Miss Sophy, was it? Kratides has been asking if you were alright. I can take you to the Yard and have you look after him…the doctor said it might help him. I’ll also need a statement as well.”

She nodded happily, Gregson and his underlings leaving with the two men. Holmes turned back to Mycroft as they walked to the two waiting carriages. “You were far too nice to that man.”

“I was not. I ran out of time, that’s all.”

Holmes chuckled as they got to the first carriage with Mr. Melas in it. “Brother, I would like to see you more often. I’ve missed you.”

Mycroft smiled at him, reaching over to pat his shoulder. “Of course we must, my dear brother. I’m sad we only just learned more about each other, and considering I live above a bistro, you should at least visit, in case you’re stuck on a case or something.”

Holmes laughed a little at that as Mycroft got into the carriage. “Mycroft.” The older Holmes looked over at his brother, who seemed to regard him with a strange look.

“It was an assignment like mine, only you discovered something about yourself. Something that lead you to your Alexis.”

“Indeed it was. At least we’re no longer so close-minded, are we?”

“No, we’re not. Watson and I shall come by sometime later, then.”

“Oh good. We can talk more and discuss some interesting things, I’m sure.”

Holmes smiled brightly. “It is good to talk to you, brother mine.”

“You as well, brother mine.”

\--

“You’re being too protective,” Melas muttered as he sat against Mycroft in bed, feeling better then last night but still slightly sick and bruised.

“If I was, I would’ve gone with you,” Mycroft muttered, kissing the top of Melas’ head and reaching up to gently stroke Melas’ hair. He enjoyed the scent and feel of the curly hair. “Tell me again about those two.”

“I told you already,” Melas muttered, turning his head to listen to Mycroft’s heartbeat.

“Tell me again, I said,” Mycroft slowly began rubbing along Melas’ back and arms, gently working the tension and knots out from where he’d been struck and held roughly, trying to be as gentle as he could.

Melas sighed happily against him at the touch and began, “Kratides was an Epimedian that was adopted by a Greek family. Sophy was his childhood friend and love.”

“Ah, the reason he can only speak one language…Epimedians are horrid at learning another language, and often only know one. Much like Americans, I gathered.”

“No, Americans learn if they need to.”

“Ah. Very well. Did he ask for Sophy’s hand?”

Melas shifted to be more on Mycroft’s lap, the large man pulling him up and kissing along his hairline. “Mmm…no. But Sophy’s father sent her off to see the world, and when they learned of what happened with Latimer, Kratides offered to go and bring her back, or if not, to ensure the man was worthy of Sophy.”

“Hmmm,” Mycroft hummed as he reached Melas’ chin and throat, “How sweet. He wished to give her away, so long as she was happy?”

Melas groaned lightly. “Yes. But they held him, and threatened her. Then their other interpreter demanded too much, and they needed to get me.”

Mycroft finally kissed along his neck and shoulder, holding the back of Melas’ head lightly as he arched back a little. “I was worried, when you called and sounded so scared, when I saw you hurt. I should have broken his neck, had I not promised to return him alive to face justice.”

“Mycroft,” Melas muttered, “svp, je vous veux.”

“Just because you speak French…”

“Je suis très bien,” Melas complained, still in French, “Je veux vous sentir à l'intérieur de moi.”

Mycroft chuckled as he continued to kiss, lightly touching one black bruise on Melas’ shoulder. “I don’t want to hurt you anymore then you are.” He pulled away to looked at Melas before kissing him soundly, feeling the smaller man moan in his mouth. “The doctor said not to exhaust yourself…so I’ll do all the work.”

\--

Watson sighed as he finished writing, looking over at Holmes. “I’m beginning to wonder if I should tell you anything.”

“Of course you should,” Holmes said from his place on the settee, “if you don’t, how will I ever be able to help you when your powers backfire? It wasn’t until you remember that odd thing that you did any harm, therefore whatever it was that you remember is harmful. As painful as it would be to rebuild a psyche from the base up, I might at least have to renovate instead.” He sighed as Watson stayed looking at his desk or out the window, tapping his thumb on the opened page. “Watson, please. I would rather you tell me then I have to find out. If I know, then perhaps we can work through it, and you can gain more control.”

Watson breathed out slowly, looking at his books and attempting to think of what to do. He had more control then before: only four months ago, he would’ve tossed everyone against a wall, or through it, and have felt more guilt over the use of his power then he did now. His powers were now almost held in Holmes’ hands, and he was offering the key to holding it in his own.

“If you ask me a question,” Watson finally said, “I will answer. That’s all I can offer.”

Holmes smiled at him, a bright one that had Watson smiling as well, feeling that this was something not everyone got. “Thank you.”


	4. On the Historical Influence of the "Gloria Scott"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When he was of college age, Sherlock Holmes met Victor Trevor. From there, his thinking was changed and his ideas were questioned.

It was a boon that he’d taken refuge in the college, sitting and frowning upon seeing the various others that were now walking all over one of the more prestigious universities of the Human race. They honestly had no idea the amount of damage they were doing, just by walking about on something that should rightfully belong to Earth and it’s beings, not these extraterrestrial slime.

The young man was tall, his hair made darker by his pale complexion and gray eyes that took in everything and seemed to remain on something for a bit too long, or simply focus on something and pushed his distaste forward enough to be almost felt. His suit was simple but elegant enough to fit in with everyone else, at least with every other Human in the area, though he also frowned when he saw a plain-clothed man carrying a book or two. The lower classes was…well, to put it frankly, he only dealt with a few people like that when he was in the lower areas of London, trying to fit in and use some of the techniques that he’d learn from an actor who helped them.

He slowly stood up, taking out a cigarette before he heard a sudden chattering from behind him. His senses and fear of being caught still on high, the tall man turned quickly, looking behind him to see a grouping of people scattering and a harried looking young man racing towards him, yelling “Cerebus, get back here!”

It took all of a few seconds to make the deduction: a young man running to him, a yell of a name that normally wasn’t given to any Human, and everyone scattering.

Sherlock Holmes jumped up on one of the higher areas with a lamp, intent on climbing up if needed, and nearly did when he saw the large alien dog that came up, barking at him and snapping at his ankles, nearly getting him right before the other young man came up, grabbing the leash and pulling back on it. “Cerebus! Bad boy! Don’t you dare attack anyone! I’m so sorry, sir, he’s just being horrid today.”

“If you can’t control the beast,” Holmes muttered, slowly climbing down, “then don’t have one.”

The minute his foot touched a brick, it tilted, broke, and Holmes crashed down onto the ground, cutting short a shout of pain as the beast started barking again, though from the new angle it appeared to not be alien but rather a mixed mutt of a beast and large, lunging to Holmes as he rose his arms, the young man attempting to stop the beast when…

A large, wet tongue went up along Holmes’ face and cheek, leaving saliva along his face.

“Cerebus! Really!” the young man said, then laughed.

The man had the _gall_ to _laugh_ , loudly and in such a way that it seemed that the whole of the day was simply one full joke after another.

“But you’re hurt!” he chuckled, though he looked a little serious about things. “You’re a student here, aren’t you? Come on, the doctor is the best.” With no more talk, Holmes found himself lifted up and away from the large dog. The young man was nearly as tall as he was, but his hair was a natural perm and white-blond, his eyes a dark blue color and his face slightly tanned, showing off his athletic nature, and his muscles were built well enough that he not only supported Holmes completely but also attempted to hold onto Cerebus at the same time.

“No, really, I’m quite--.”

“Nonsense, your ankle is probably sprained or something. Come on, it’s not far, and now that he’s met you, Cerebus will love you forever, won’t you Cerebus?” The dog panted happily in reply. “Now then, I’m Victor Trevor. Who are you?”

 --

One bandaged ankle and a rest in a room later, Holmes was suddenly very aware of the danger that might come from remaining and not sneaking away. He’d come to the university to hide and to speak with one academic who was sympathetic to the Cause, allowing him to get more of an education, his own being woefully limited to what his mind demanded of him. His father had been grateful for the two boys who were at par with the great Moriarty, but then one turned traitor, and that left Sherlock to live up to his potential.

Of course, if the academic found out about him in the hospital, perhaps he’d be able to stay a little while…

There was a light knock on the door before it opened, Trevor looking in and holding up a large basket of Terran and other fruit. “The doctor said it was alright to visit.”

“ _I_ didn’t.”

“Yes, well, that’s different,” Trevor pointed out, putting the basket nearby and pulling out a bright red apple. “I’m terribly sorry for being very rude, but I found it simply so _funny_ that he…that is, my dog…would _lick_ you. He must find something in you nice, for he never licks anyone.”

“Hence the scattering of all kinds at his release?”

Trevor sighed and nodded, taking a seat. “I really do love that dog, too. I found him as a mutt, and so far he’s failed to stop growing. I’m pretty sure one day he’ll be large enough to carry me on his back, as it is he carries my books with enough ease it’s a wonder he wasn’t born for it. Unluckily he also tends to bite everyone, which was why I was so worried.”

Holmes snorted, sitting up a little to take another apple from the bunch of fruit. “I and dogs do not get along, save for one, and he was a tracking dog. He had a job to do.”

Trevor chuckled at that. “Well, don’t tell Cerebus, he might get jealous.”

“I don’t intend on seeing that monster of yours again. _Normal_ dogs don’t keep growing.”

“He’s quite young still, and he might stop. I believe he’s simply from a large stock,” Trevor said defensively, biting into his apple, “I suppose by ‘normal’ you mean ‘from Earth’.”

Holmes glared at him. “Of course I do. Why would I mean from anywhere else?”

Trevor shrugged. “You just sound like Professor Armitage, is all. Speaking about how things were before the Denebolans came. I do grant that it’s a great class he has, but rather dull. I don’t see the point of complaining about the old days. After all, if nothing changed, where would we be now? I like the ability to travel quickly to home on the rail, or be able to send my father a note on the computers at the library. To go back to a way of life that is now obsolete with the inventions that both humans and Denebolans have given us would be rather backwards, wouldn’t it?”

“It would at least make humanity proud of their achievements,” Holmes countered.

“I doubt that,” Trevor said thoughtfully, “we lose knowledge and find it again, then treat it as some grand discovery no one ever had. I mean, take that Rosetta Stone that was just translated, finding a ‘lost’ language. How can one lose something so tangible as a whole writing system? It’s beyond me at times.”

Holmes looked him over carefully, slowly eating the apple he’d taken and thinking of what he’d said before starting again. “You don’t mind that they are--.”

“You _are_ one of Armitage’s pupils, aren’t you? Honestly, I don’t know of anyone who would continue that line of inquiry.”

“Perhaps one that is curious as to the reason for thinking it? I am somewhat good at making deductions, and know that at least you are a student of Philosophy, but I don’t see how that enters into dealing with the Denebolans.” Holmes was quite happy he was able to call them that, rather then what some others did. That would give him away as a Resistance fighter quicker than if he’d mentioned where he was from.

“Curiosity and deductions have nothing to do with it,” Trevor argued back, “you took one look at the fruit and didn’t even ask what some of them were. So either you’re not about to eat them, or you already know. Either way, Philosophy was something I was interested in. Father wouldn’t send me to a trade school.”

Holmes frowned at that. “So what I choose to eat tells you…what about me?” Having had no one else to use deduction on who didn’t think it amazing, or who called him childish for it, Holmes found himself enjoying this odd argument with the other young man.

“It tells me you’re someone like Armitage, who seems to enjoy living in the past, or at least glorifying it, instead of attempting to figure out what it is we can do to improve our standing. There are more than a few Humans who have gained the respect of Denebolans, and despite having less technology, that doesn’t stop us from enjoying the benefits. Yes, Africa is a bloody mess but it might have been worse had it not been for the ambassadors who helped bring peace and restrict not only who got what as far as colonies, but also the rights of the tribes there. We’re learning more and more about our world from them and doing it in such a way that might result in not having to worry about not having the resources in the future. Yes, there still is poverty and crime, but considering that even those from other worlds have such problems makes it all the more connective of us being a united galaxy, facing the same sins and attempts to make ourselves better.”

“So you’re weighing the fact that we were not allowed to make mistakes in our favor?”

“You’d rather have a good amount of human blood be spilled in the name of…what? To state you’d enjoy the thought of having countless wars in order to prove superiority, instead of simply living in a joined world where peace is more important, then I wonder at your argument.”

Holmes did as well. “It is not just the mistakes but the advances as well. We’re not allowed the freedom to make either.”

“We are, but we have a better understanding of how they affect others now.”

“So instead of freedom you take the possibility of consequences and don’t try something at all?”

“Having something blow off my hand is my own mistake. Having something that would destroy a whole city is a mistake of humanity’s need for fighting. Why be angry that some outside influence stopped you from killing your neighbor? We’ve been imposing ourselves in such a matter and it’s gotten us only wars and grief.”

Holmes sighed, having to agree that he was beaten, though in truth such a line of logic was normal for him lately and he’d gotten to the point that he wasn’t quite sure why he hadn’t brought it up before. Of course, Moriarty might have a way to counter these, but Holmes couldn’t think of it. He knew his father’s anger was due to a family loss, but he’d not quite understood the whole thing either, and even as a member who was advancing faster than any other, Holmes was getting more and more questions about their reasons to continue the fight against the Denebolans and a society that was more and more rejecting their ideas as backwards, prejudiced, and even dangerous with some of the attacks that Moran and others planned.

“You’re not convinced?” Trevor asked as he finished his apple and tossed it away, taking out a star-shaped fruit to start on that.

“I’m not in disagreement with you,” Holmes said slowly, “but…I’ve never had anyone to argue this with. As it is, I am still uncertain if this change was the best for the world in general, but I will admit that the small pockets of enlightenment that have been witnessed is at least a relief.”

Trevor smiled happily. “Good! Then you won’t object to coming to stay the summer vacation with me at my father’s estate?”

“…what?”

 --

“You may have no other choice,” Armitage said when he visited Holmes, having convinced the doctor and others that Holmes was the son of a friend and therefore could remain in the university, “Moriarty has yet to find a way to direct suspicion away from the school, and summer vacation will give you the best cover for sneaking away. As well, Trevor Sr. is a prominent judge in one of the more secluded areas of the country. I know it will be terribly rude, but the first minute you can, you must leave the house and head to the nearest safe point.”

“That was his only instruction?” Holmes asked, testing weight on his foot and happily noting it was much better now.

“So far. As far as the Trevors are concerned, there’s nothing that can be done…you’ve spoken to the boy. The group is far too enchanted with the idea of world unity under the--.”

“I have argued the point with him,” Holmes interrupted, wishing the older man was a little more careful with what he said in such an unsecure location. “He’s unflinching in the idea that our destinies as humans were moved forward a few hundred years, and no harm has come to us. I cannot argue what I would because it would expose me, and while he has claimed me as a friend, I don’t take words at their value, but rather actions.”

Holmes didn’t want to mention that Trevor’s actions had proven him a friend as well, and one who might actually take this secret in stride, or as a challenge. What he’d learned of Trevor wrote him as argumentative anyway, but knowing what he was speaking about, and that his major in Philosophy was more so he could prove to his father he could think before going to a trade school, or at least jump a ship and learn how to run one.

“A good philosophy,” Armitage said, nodding, “as well, some of their servants are…well, they aren’t natural, like that dog he has. It was right he called it after a hell hound.”

Holmes nodded, tuning out more of Armitage’s ramblings as he got his things together. He would leave the hospital soon and room with Armitage, but between that, Trevor had shown he enjoyed sports, and that instead of rugby, the man not only boxed but also fenced and did singlestick. Holmes had agreed that, upon being fully healed, he’d take his revenge by one of those three, if not all three, and Trevor had burst out laughing and agreed to all three, stating he wanted to meet someone who could fight all over the gym. Holmes found his attitude annoying, but was more amazed by the fact that, afterwards, he wondered briefly if he couldn’t heal himself faster.

The summer, it appeared, might be a trial of faith.

 --

Trevor smiled as Holmes looked out the window, watching the scenery go by at high-speed. The new rail, one of three in the country, connected the university to the further areas of the kingdom, with the older models helping to serve the more populated areas that often could have dangers in the tracks and require slower-moving trains.

Still, Trevor had to admit that he enjoyed watching the childlike way in which Holmes looked out and around the area, though it did call a few things into question. While Trevor had grown up in a relatively secluded area of England, he did understand that some would view anyone who had a connection to Armitage as a danger, and possibly as someone who was connected to the Resistance, or Fawkes as some people jokingly called them for the many failed attempts they had at blowing up important buildings. The few other attempts had left a good population of homeless children, and one had apparently caused Cerebus to be orphaned as well, leaving his pedigree up in the air.

It seemed odd to him, though, that Holmes was still attempting to argue against the Denebolans. When he mentioned this over a motion-live conference with his father, the elder Trevor had stated that prejudices were hard to fight against, and that he’d asked a few of the Denebolan servants to remain slightly more out of sight because he didn’t want to make the young man uncomfortable.

“After all,” he’d told Victor with a smile, “You never bring friends.”

That was too true. Despite his happy nature, the eccentric way in which he acted and his too-often attempts at arguments just for arguments sakes had left him friendless for most of his childhood, which made the appearance of Holmes and his arguments, as well as his attempts to argue other points, such a boon. He was also so very sure of himself that he set most others away, and Trevor enjoyed the fact that the two got along so well. It helped immensely that Cerebus loved him with all his heart and was very fond of him.

Trevor shifted as much as he could, as Cerebus was resting fully on the seat next to him and had his head on Trevor’s lap, stopping him from really moving anywhere unless he had to, and pointed to some of the country that they were passing by, “Have you heard of that area over there?”

Holmes checked it as they passed, pausing then nodding. “Yes, I have. Where the first major fight was against the Resistance and the Denebolans, right before Queen Victoria signed a treaty with them. A good deal of people were killed, weren’t they?”

“Yes,” Trevor said in agreement, “Father said there’s a move to make a memorial there for both sides.”

Holmes blinked at that, but remained silent, looking out the window and not speaking about anything until the train stopped a few minutes later.

Cerebus allowed them to quickly make their way through the crowd and to the waiting cart, Trevor’s father moving down to embrace his son. “Victor! It’s so good to see you again. I see Cerebus is still growing…is this your friend?” Trevor Sr. reached over to shake Holmes hand fondly. “Victor told me a little about you, but I look forward to having you here for the summer. Come now, we should head home so we can get dinner. I’m sure the journey has made you both hungry.”

Victor smiled at that, Cerebus panting happily as they got in, his father driving them away from the station and back home.

 --

Holmes stretched out, looking around sleepily and slowly sitting up as the last bit of sleep slowly wore off. The dinner had been excellent, and the past two days had been wonderful as well, causing Holmes to feel a calm that he’d never quite had before, causing him to wonder if he’d ever be able to feel it again.

He’d been able to send one letter to tell his Father he was alright and what he had found with Armitage, as well as what he’d learned from Trevor in the days since. The fact that Armitage was known for his near-Resistance views made Holmes himself skeptical of the man’s use for their cause, as few if any of the college pupils took him seriously, and he had only a small gathering who seemed too far in the Peerage to do much help besides suggest laws without finding themselves at the same loss at Holmes and his family did. Of course, Holmes had been able to set up a small account for himself, hidden away in case the others were caught or he needed to be away from the others for a while, and it was growing rapidly due to a few good investments and savings.

There was a quick knock before Trevor’s voice came through the door. “Holmes? Father was wondering if you’d care to go fishing with him today…I’m taking care of Cerebus and the rabbits.”

Holmes blinked rapidly at that. “Rabbits?”

“Yes, a small family of rabbits. We found them attempting to eat the vegetables and I said I’d keep them and raise them. The father tasted far too good to let them go.”

Holmes decided not to comment on that as he got dressed, “Tell your father I’ll be down in a minute.”

“Alright. Are you sure? I could also show you Erebus.”

“Who?”

“My horse! He’s a beautiful black stallion who tends to throw anyone else.”

Holmes had a guess at why Trevor wanted him to meet Erebus. “I don’t feel like being thrown.”

“But he and Cerebus are nearly brothers, and if Cerebus loves you, I’m sure--.”

“Trevor, NO.”

There was a long pause, allowing Holmes to get his toilet and up to his shirtsleeves before he said, “Well, what about Elysium?”  
“You’ve read far too many Greek myths when you named these animals…”

“But Elysium is wonderful! She’s the mare I picked out for Erebus, a beautiful white one, she runs like the wind I tell you, and if they do get a foal you can have it.”

Holmes sighed, looking at his writing desk as he finished dressing. They didn’t have room for a horse…or if they did, there was a bad possibility for what it would be used for in the end. Father’s prized horse had been used to plow at one point, and when it’d no longer been of use, they had shot it and turned it into a horrible stew that Holmes remembered made him sick. He knew how to ride, and drive a cart or carriage, and the animals enjoyed him, but he’d never been able to get close to them.

“We don’t have a place for horses,” Holmes told Trevor before he opened the door, seeing Trevor standing outside and frowning at him, “I’m sorry.”

“Oh…well, we could keep it here for you, and you could at least name it. Then it would be yours.”

Yes, Holmes thought as he smiled at that, following Trevor down for a quick breakfast before going out with his father to fish, this was going to be a large test of faith.

 --

Holmes chuckled slightly at Trevor’s joke, petting Cerebus behind the ear as the large dog lay down between the two, huffing lightly but otherwise happy. If Holmes considered everything in his month at the Trevor’s estate, it was easy to see why Father had been so upset over the loss of the ancestral Holmes mansion and his title, though Trevor Sr. only held the rank of judge where the Holmes’ had been in charge of the area for centuries.

Trevor frowned as he saw the maid, a young Human who seemed skittish but was at least a good person, as far as the lower class was concerned. She spoke briefly with Trevor Sr. before heading back towards the house.

“Well?” Trevor muttered as Cerebus raised his head, causing both to grab hold of the collar so the dog wouldn’t go to attack whoever else came out, “What do you deduce from that?”

Holmes rolled his eyes at that, wondering briefly why Trevor hadn’t spoken to his father about the ‘great powers’ that Holmes had found commonplace for himself. He suspected it had something to do with not wanting to upset the man, as Holmes had asked Trevor about a tattoo he’d seen on Trevor Senior and only learned that it shouldn’t be talked about, as it had caused some trouble when Trevor brought it up himself.

Despite that, Holmes did enjoy showing off and watched from their area as the maid brought out a man who was dressed in enough of a mish-mash of clothing that Holmes whispered quickly, “A sailor, but down on his luck, perhaps not up for the work that comes to him, and has been at sea for quite a while.” He frowned upon seeing Trevor Senior’s reaction to the man. “Trevor…I don’t like this. Whoever that man is, he’s scared your father.”

Cerebus apparently agreed to this, for he growled loud enough to get the attention of the other two men. Trevor and Holmes quickly stood, Cerebus barring his teeth at the sailor came closer.

“Victor, Mr. Holmes, this is my good friend, Mr. Hudson. We met some years ago, when I was working through my passage to Australia,” Trevor stated, smiling at the two, “Hudson, this is my boy, Victor, and his friend, Mr. Holmes.”

“Holmes is it?” the sailor state, grinning a little, “And Victor…fine lads, the both of you. Indeed, they are quite fine lads. You’ve done well for yourself here. Perhaps I’ll stay and visit a while.”

Holmes frowned at Hudson’s tone when it came to his name, shifting a little as Cerebus continued to growl, his whole body antagonistic towards the man. Victor glanced between the three as his father quickly ordered the maid to get Hudson some food and that he’d get him a job somewhere. Victor glanced quickly at his father before Hudson left, then after he was gone asked, “Father…have you been drinking?”

Holmes disliked this implication, though Trevor Senior denied it while his breath spoke otherwise. Trevor finally took Cerebus fully, saying he’d put him in the stables with Erebus in order to ensure murder was not done in the house. Holmes headed inside to get something to drink, pausing and looking to see that the maid and few butlers weren’t around before heading into where Hudson was sitting, eating some potatoes and a large steak. He smirked at Holmes upon seeing him enter, taking a large bite out of the meat. “I’m amazed your friend’s da hasn’t mentioned your last name. Your own da was loud enough to be heard even when I first met that man outside.”

“I guessed as much,” Holmes answered quietly, stalking forward towards the man, “I take it you have your own reasons for being here?”

The man chuckled again as he ate. “For my own reason, boy, my own reason is all, though I think you should leave. After all, don’t want your friend to know what you are, do you?”

Holmes glared at him, though the man’s smile said that he was not above telling Trevor that. He shifted and finally headed back out, finding Trevor waiting just outside.

“Are you alright?” Trevor asked, frowning at him.

“Perfectly fine. Just…I realize I should head home. My father will be worried that I’ve been away for so long…he’s…very protective, much like yours.”

Trevor slowly nodded, looking over at the door leading to the servant’s dinning room. “What did Mr. Hudson say to you?”

“He mentioned having heard of another branch of my family. I’m not sure what he’s talking about, and I was hoping to ask my father. Unluckily, Father doesn’t believe in modern communications.”

Trevor sighed, nodding at that. “I’ll help you pack, then. When do you want to leave?”

“Forgive me, but I must leave as early as possible.” He paused as they headed up to his room, “Trevor…if anything happens, with Hudson and you father…no matter what your father says, you must stand up to the man.”

“What? Why?”

“Your father’s attitude suggests this man is dangerous, or knows something about his life before he came here. It frightens him to no end…therefore, no matter what the secret, no matter what, you _must_ confront him if he does something to harm your father or the household.”

Trevor took in a breath, then nodded. “I will. But you will try to return, won’t you?”

“I’ll try.”

 --

The safe house was quite a few miles away, and he slowly walked in, frowning at the décor that was obviously picked by various people over the course of the time it was used. He followed the servant to his room, able to put his stuff on the bed before there was a knock and his father came in.

Sherringford Holmes was about as tall as his eldest son, his bulk gaining but his muscles causing him to appear to be a much older Holmes brother, had the three ever gotten a picture before Mycroft had left.

“Sherlock,” Father said, looking him over, “you appear to be well.”

“Thank you,” Holmes said, nodding slightly at his father and standing straight before him, “Has the Professor gotten my assignment?”

“He has. He was curious as to your assessment of Professor Armitage as far as his use within the Resistance.” His father frowned at him as Holmes shifted under his gaze, uncertain where this was leading. “Moran has come along with some questions.”

Holmes frowned at that, turning to look at his father in surprise. “Do you know what type?”

“Simply about your assessment of Armitage, as well as about the family you stayed with recently…the Trevors was it?”

Holmes nodded. “The son, Victor, befriended me and somewhat asked me to visit for the summer.”

“Somewhat?”

“He’s very…pushy. He also doesn’t quite understand the meaning of ‘no’ at times,” Holmes shifted and, at his father’s nod, he started to take out his clothing and items, “a sailor came there shortly before I left. He knew the implications of my name, and seemed to have some hold over the older Trevor.”

His father frowned. “Did you find out what it was?”

“No, though I have a theory,” Holmes continued, looking up, then away at his father’s look. “Trevor was worried about it, so I gave him at least some instructions to deal with him. Milverton might know what the man knows, but it seems a very obscure thing.”

“Does it?”

“There was a mention of having served on the same ship, but no talk about the name. I left in order to not cause trouble.”

His father shifted, walking over to stand near a wooden chair. “What was the house like?”

“Odd. They had a few Human servants, but I saw signs they had equal number of Human and Scrugs in their service. I never ran into one, however, which I suppose is better than nothing.”

His father frowned. “They hired them?”

“Yes. A small group had settled in the nearby village, and most of the area had at least one in their service, or had a business owned by one. We only went past it, so I couldn’t quite check on how things were.”

Father continued to frown, considering the information. “You aren’t planning to return, are you?”

“Not unless he contacts me. He can’t find out where I am, so I doubt that will happen.”

Father nodded. “Good.” He paused to pull out his watch, checking the time. “Moran will see you in an hour. Is that enough time to get ready?”

It wasn’t, but Holmes nodded all the same, his father leaving the room to allow him enough time to get slightly cleaned up and into better clothing before he walked back out, getting a quick glass of water then going to see Moran.

Colonel Sebastian Moran was a well-built man with a military-issue mustache and skin tanned from his long years as a shikari in India. He wore a dark suit and was standing next to a second-rate desk, which sadly Holmes had come to expect from this particular safe house. He had always reminded Holmes of a tiger, his eyes a strange yellow color that made him all the more unnerving as Moriarty’s second in command.

“Report,” he said curtly in his military voice.

Holmes, standing straight, seemed to straighten further at the voice and command, “I have made contact with Professor Armitage, however a circumstance resulted in my having to remain hidden within the college. A young student named Victor Trevor invited me to his home for the summer, and I accepted in order to evade capture, in case there was anyone still following me. The introduction of a sailor called Hudson, as well as the possibility he is blackmailing the elder Trevor with knowledge of a past deed, caused me to leave.”

Moran nodded at the quick part. “You said that you were uncertain about allowing Armitage to join us. Why?”

“He would not add anything to our cause, and the few students he does have who listen to him are either not of a family with enough influence in any area, or who wouldn’t have the influence later on anyway. He is also considered as close to being part of us without being arrested, and no one would find it a surprise that he was part of our cause. He’s a danger to us and our work.”

Moran was silent for a moment. “You stated all this in your report. You said that the one student you could talk to outside of Professor Armitage’s circle instantly thought you were one of his students and told you many disliked his talk beyond history. Were you able to confirm his ideas?”

Holmes nodded. “His fellow roommates, as well as those in the gym, all had similar views about Armitage. They said they would not be surprised if the man _was_ part of the Resistance, save that he enjoyed his job too much. It was believed he might have been approached before but rejected the call to action in order to keep up his style of living.” He kept himself serious and uncaring as Moran’s eyes fell upon him, as if glaring through him. “He is not someone we want within our organization, or at least that I see no reason to have in our organization.”

Moran stepped forward quickly, stopping close enough to only look silly as he glared up at Holmes. His height made it hard to intimidate him, and his strength was well-known among the group. He was, therefore, not the type of person who was easily picked on or intimidated by anyone save Moriarty, and that was through intellectual only and slowly waning as Holmes questioned more and more of his decisions and with less and less of them being answered in a way he could justify, or indeed anyone could.

“The Professor is quite displeased with you, and with your report. Professor Armitage brings more to the organization then you do, and after that month with people who openly admire and hire Scrugs? Or someone who was possibly a criminal before they came down and decided to rearrange our way of life? _You_ are the liability, Holmes, just as your brother was.”

Holmes’ own glare at least sent Moran back a step. “ _Never_ compare me to him again, and if you want to drag that man in, then be my guest. I did warn you.”

 --

Holmes winced as he lightly touched the bruise forming on his cheek from where his father had hit him after the report, signaling that his thoughts on the matter were not appreciated. He disliked this fact, as well as the fact that the opinions of those who went out to do the dangerous jobs were never considered. At times like this, he wondered if perhaps Mycroft wasn’t right in his leaving…

He shook his head lightly, taking a seat on his bed and getting the small pack of ice that one of the servants had left for him on the side table. He considered if he shouldn’t go back to check on Trevor, but he scrapped the idea. He was in enough trouble without adding to it, and he just didn’t want to add that extra black mark to his record. That he was already being compared to Myrcoft was making him worried.

When Holmes had been ten, his brother had come to him and said he was leaving the group, all but begging him to go with him. Holmes had refused, called his brother all sort of a traitor, and attempted to tell on him but been unable to, as the larger and older man had been able to keep him quiet until well after breakfast, when he’d been found tied up and gagged by a servant. Their father had not been happy with him, and neither had Moriarty. The ‘test’ that his brother had gone on had been a failure, and now that he considered things, perhaps he should have joined his brother—

Holmes grimaced and shifted. No, to leave would mean certain death and having to live with those Scrugs, or even deal with simply living in the dark area that the orphans he’d seen before live in, those he’d met with at one point, a small group called the Irregulars, but they had to live with Scrugs and face the new life that this world was giving. What choice was that? At least here, he had a chance to make a difference, to change the world back to the good it had once been.

Of course, life outside seemed no different than being part of the resistance, save that he was at least able to pursue his career choice without the danger of being arrested. As well, if he was truthful, he would even be able to remain friends with Trevor, instead of being ordered to avoid him. He could at least have a _life_ , a normal, proper life with females asking for favors, or boxing and fencing against others, riding horses, and all the things that he’d done with Trevor, the balls and the dances, the everything that he’d seen…perhaps he’d even get along with the Denebolans. After all, the few he’d met had been kind and not the same type that he’d normally had described to him. The servants, both Human and not, had been as they should have been, though Trevor was a little more friendly to his and that made them act differently as well.

The ice was crushed under his hand before he put it back on the side table. It was useless to think of those things, not until…

Holmes sighed. His first test has been to find and speak to Armitage, and he had. The man was a fool, and to bring him in for anything was a foolish sport. So why were they going to?

 _Brother, these men do not think! They live in the past, and I cannot think of leaving you here to stagnate with the rest of them._

He should have gone with Mycroft, his fate be damned.

 --

Some five weeks later there was a succession of taps on his window, almost too quiet for anyone but Holmes to notice before he reached over and opened it, looking out to the grounds.

A large, wet tongue met him suddenly, and he grimaced at it. “Cerebus…”

The dog looked at him as Trevor, standing next to him, smiled. “Holmes, I need to talk to you…what happened to your eye?”

“I walked into a door.”

“Now’s not the time for jokes,” Trevor said seriously, “Hudson left, and my father had a heart attack. I need you to come with me to figure this out.”

“I--.”

“Holmes, shut up and get over here before someone notices us.”

Holmes sighed, grabbing his shoes and a coat before heading out the window, closing it after him and looking around. Oddly enough, the two hadn’t alerted anyone or anything so far and Holmes hoped to keep it that way.

“Explain.”

“On the way. We don’t have much time…Holmes, it’s bad.” Cerebus gave a small whimper and Holmes finally nodded, hopping briefly to put his shoes on before following the other young man and large dog into the night.

 --

Holmes slowly picked up the note as Trevor raced upstairs, the news upon their return grim enough to cause Trevor to race up, to be there at least at the end of his father’s life.

One of the lesser-seen Scrugs walked up, putting down a small glass of brandy for him as he frowned at it, before finally asking, “Sir? Do you know what it means?”

Holmes glanced at him, then finally nodded. “Who sent it?”

“It had a Fordingbridge post-mark…but as to who, I’m not quite sure or not. Judge Trevor never mentioned knowing anyone in that area.”

Holmes frowned and nodded. “Trevor mentioned a Mr. Beddoes living in that area. Hudson suggested, I think?” At the Denebolan’s nod, he continued, “Hudson must have found gone there. Did the Trevors know them?”

The Denebolan nodded again, Holmes putting the pieces together. “I need to talk to Victor then…right away.”

 --

Trevor was sitting at the desk in his father’s room, looking over a few papers, looking up quickly when Holmes came in. “Holmes…I…there’s just…”

“Trevor, I need you to tell me if you know where Mr. Beddoes lives.”

He blinked at that, then nodded. “I…yes. Why?”

“If we’re quick enough, we may just avenge your father.”

 --

The trip was not too long, but long enough that Holmes got the story of James Armitage, the son of Professor Armitage and a man who had accumulated enough debt to be sent to Australia for it. Holmes knew of the law, one whose sentence had been reduced shortly after the arrival of the Scrugs had appeared. That Victor had found out his grandfather had been teaching and not knowing about the continued existence of his son, or even that he had a grandson, and that he was teaching him.

Holmes considered Moriarty’s attitude, and the one taught to him. A family that has one bad apple is made of a group of them, and none should be trusted.

Yet he knew better. He knew Trevor, and he knew Trevor’s father enough to realize the mistake was, as he said, a simple one, and no reason for being sent to Australia at all. Armitage had enough to pay for his son’s debt, and he’d instead had claimed the son had died of some sort of disease.

That, at least, would be a good reason for him to have gone on this mission…Milverton would like to know about such things.

But he didn’t come here for that, Holmes thought as he stayed near the police station, uncertain if they had his description or if the area had a lot of Denebolan people in it, which often caused him to feel annoyed. He had to work on that.

He frowned as he waited, wondering what was taking Trevor so long. He’d put the funeral arrangements in the hands of the head butler, and now was trying to find out if anyone had seen Hudson in the area. That the man was a danger to Mr. Beddoes and, possibly, could end up dying if he pushed too far.

Holmes froze when he felt a hand come down upon his shoulder, a voice stating harshly in his ear, “You’ve lead me on a fine chase, Holmes, but you’re not getting away this time.”

 --

“Mr. Trevor?” the man was of medium height and looked, to Trevor, somewhat like a ferret or something similar. Not handsome, but quite ordinary, and almost forgettable unless one felt that they should. He was a young Inspector, Trevor had to guess, and seemed quite worried about something.

“Yes?”

“My name’s Inspector Giles Lestrade,” he said, showing his badge, “I need to talk to you about that friend of yours…a Mr. Sigerson?”

Trevor nodded, recalling what Holmes had said about his odd fake name and his half-reason why. “What about him?”

“There was an attack in your room…the dog of your fought them off, but your friend is apparently gone. All of his items are gone as well.”

Trevor blinked, suddenly worried. “What happened? Where did he go?”

Lestrade held up his hand. “Steady on. We’re not sure, but…there’s a high probability that he might be part of Moriarty’s gang.”

“Mor—who?”

“He’s part of the Fawkes Resistance, the most dangerous and zealot of the group. The two men that your dog killed were known members of the group.”

Trevor slowly sat in a nearby chair, looking over at Lestrade then the floor, blinking a little at that news. “No, I mean…but….” Too many things added up, and he didn’t want to think that Holmes was that. Then that would mean perhaps that Professor Armitage…Grandda…it was so odd that he now could say such a thing, having never had one…”Sir, please, just tell me what you know, and I’ll tell you what I know.”

Lestrade sighed, taking off his hat and nodding, taking a seat near him, “Alright. I’ll start with your Mr. Sigerson and what I know about the Moriarty gang…”

 --

In a way, Lestrade could understand Mr. Trevor’s worry and silence about his friend and the possibly that he was part of the Moriarty gang. That he spent a month at the house and was one of Trevor’s only friends, as well as one of the few that the rather larger and possibly…no, actually quite dangerous…dog of Trevor’s would be friendly with. That seemed a good enough excuse, in some ways, but the problem was all that came after the boy had disappeared. Trevor had explained what he knew, as well as his father’s history, and Lestrade had sent word to find and put a guard on Professor Armitage. Sadly, the man was found in his room dead of a soft-nose revolver bullet when there was no area from which the bullet could come from. His work in the whole situation, however, had promoted him to being an Inspector in New Scotland Yard, and he was attempting to follow up on the whole situation.

Trevor’s worry over his friend had caused him to file a missing person’s report before he left, stating he’d keep in touch in case Holmes was ever found. The last he’d heard from the young man, Trevor had quit university and was going in to be a pilot on the trans-galactic ships, where a few humans were joining in the aliens and trading on other worlds. Lestrade had wished him the best, and now set about to doing his job, in the back of his mind the one thing that Trevor had hinted at.

If Lestrade ever did find Sigerson, or whatever his real name was, it would possibly either be as a corpse, or the day he defected from Moriarty’s gang.


End file.
